How To Get Away With Mercy
by Rabidnar
Summary: Chloe is taken hostage by assassins who accidentally save her from being attacked. Supposedly, there is a difference between vigilantes and serial killers, but they all look the same to someone with a gun pointed at them.
1. Chapter 1

X

* * *

 **How To Get Away With Mercy**

* * *

 _You're cinematic, razor sharp,_  
 _A welcome arrow through the heart._  
 _There is a darkness deep in you;_  
 _A frightening magic I cling to._  
 _\- Snow Patrol_

* * *

 **Chloe**

* * *

It always fucking happens like this – every night that you have to close with Jeremy is exactly the same. "Hey, uh, Chloe?" he always asks, his voice hesitant like this night might be the one night you finally step up and say no, "Do you think I could leave a few minutes early tonight?" He then proceeds to comment that it looks like you're both almost done cleaning up and makes up some new excuse about why he can't stick around for fifteen extra minutes until his shift is actually over. And as you swing the plastic bags into the dumpster behind the café you work for, you're beginning to think he's just afraid to take out the damn trash. You have been working at this same café, with him, for three out of the four years you have attended Barden, and it always fucking happens like this. But in two weeks, you're going to graduate Barden and move on to Med school, and you're tempted to set up a camera in the alley just to see, just _one time,_ Jeremy take out the trash after you leave.

The last bag hits the pile, and you take a few steps back from the sickeningly sweet smell of rotting food and spray painted metal. It's nearly midnight, you have two finals in the morning, and you need some Advil stat before you reach a point where you hit snooze too many times and have to explain to your professors, _again,_ why you never show up for their tests. It's because every night before some vital life moment, you're unlucky enough to get scheduled with Jeremy and have to virtually close the entire café on your own. Honestly, you don't even know why you have sympathy for him anymore; his sad eyes and perpetual pout are clearly just a made up scheme, because he knows he can take advantage of you. You sigh and wipe the sweat from your forehead, the night unusually scorching for mid-May. If you could have just said 'no' on at least _one_ of all those nights you told yourself you were going to finally say something…

In two weeks, it won't even matter. It won't matter.

You sigh again and brush your hands together in front of you as you turn to walk back around to the front of the building where your car is parked. The dark figure looming near the corner of the building jumpstarts your heart and nearly sends you crashing into a pile of empty boxes. "Shit. Jesus, Jeremy." You can't see his face, but you can just imagine the half-entertained glint he gets sometimes. "Look, if you came back to help, I'm done. Just go home." You frown at the silence, an eerie feeling creeping down to the base of your spine. "You're being weird…"

The figure doesn't budge from its place in the shadows – doesn't move at all, and, for a moment, you have to wonder if you're mistaking some sort of inanimate object for a human. Until it speaks. "It's a nice night." The voice is deep, raspy, and definitely not Jeremy's high-pitched squeal of a voice. "What's a pretty girl like you doin' out here by yourself? That's dangerous."

There is a sinking in your chest that dries out your throat and makes your heart feel like it's thudding somewhere deep in your stomach. You slip your hand into your pocket, curling your fingers around your phone. "I think I'll be okay," you sputter and sidestep toward the building on the other side of you – a large brick post office. Between the post office, the café, and the wooden fence that links them behind the dumpster, you're trapped on three sides – and then he is standing near the thin exit of the fourth.

"You sure about that?" He sidesteps with you, stepping out into the light under a street lamp. He's tall, lanky, white – the typical Pokémon Go club type at Barden – with crooked teeth and a nose that kind of resembles a beak. "Because I might be beggin' to differ." You wonder if you accidentally stood too close to a Pikachu, and he's just harassing you on his way to catch it. You've always had some bizzare fear about accidentally standing on a Pokémon... He smirks and your optimism smashes like glass.

You should have kept the trash bags. They were full of glass bottles, broken silverware, numerous items that would star as makeshift weapons. The small alley is empty aside from the discarded boxes and the dumpster. This part of Atlanta is clean – and you've always enjoyed that up until this very moment. You realize, all too fearfully, sweat forming on your upper lip, your breath hitching in your throat, that you might have to run if he comes any closer. You swallow and crane your neck, trying to look out past the building for any sign of life, anyone who might hear you if you scream. But not only is this particular area clean, it's also dead at this time of night. _Dead like you're about to be if you don't get out of here_ , your own voice inside your head brings you up to speed on the urgency of the situation. A reflection of light near his hand catches your attention, and the metal blade he's holding confirms this isn't just some Pokémon Go player playing a stupid prank.

"I've been watchin' you for awhile now," he says, "After that lazy coworker of yours leaves. You are _so_ fuckin' beautiful."

You're caught somewhere between trying to escape and trying to find some helpful logic to talk your way out. He takes a step toward you, making up your mind for you, and you bolt, yanking your phone from your pocket. The exit out is too narrow. In one swift move, his arm is out and he clotheslines you, hitting your neck so hard that it's unclear if he or the fall to the asphalt is what knocks the air completely out of your lungs. The back of your head hits the ground with a sickening smack and your phone shatters somewhere beside you. The world is a blur of pain and sparkling star-like lights as he digs his knee against your stomach and holds the tip of the knife against your jugular.

"If you yell," he growls, his breath like rotten meat, "You fuckin' die. If you're quiet, maybe you won't."

You squeeze your eyes shut, your arms falling limply to your sides as the point of the blade pokes you like a needle. You press your lips together to suppress both a sob and a sudden wave of nausea, and hot tears gather in the corners of your eyelids. This is just a nightmare, and you just want to succumb to a dreamless sleep. His free hand finds the buttons of your jeans, and you subconsciously arch your back to knock him off, a muffled squeak escaping you as both his knee and the knife dig further into your body. Your vocal cords turn the sound into a choked cry, and you clap your hand over your own mouth in a fit of panic – unable to tell if the moisture behind your head is blood or just tears running back into your hair. Your head feels numb. Why does it feel numb? "Please, don't do this," you beg, the words silent against your palm, "I'll give you money." If he knows you're speaking, your words mean nothing to him.

He pops open the button of your jeans and fumbles with the zipper then traces the tips of his fingers along the edge of your panties, and you can taste bile in the back of your mouth. His hands are rough and calloused, and he manages to get the tips of his fingers beneath the elastic, about to yank down your underwear and jeans together, when a loud crack echoes through the air and stops him. He collapses forward, directly on top of you, dead weight.

"Fuck," a female voice whispers, frantic.

"Why the hell would you shoot?" another woman hisses, "I told you to wait. Do _not_ help her."

"What if she's hurt?" the first asks, "Look, we can at least get her phone and call her an ambulance?"

"You want to call 911 after you just killed a hit?" the seconds responds with a quiet scoff, "That's smart."

"We can't just leave her here like that," the first says.

"Yes," the second replies, "We can."

The stars in the sky are moving in slow, fluid circles, like they're floating around in a calm, currentless lake. You place your palms flat against the man's chest and roll him onto his side, barely aware of your own body's movements. You're floating too – side to side as the world rocks on its axis, trying to slide you out of gravity's firm hold and throw you off. You push yourself up with your elbows, _someone's_ blood, your blood?, maybe it's his, pooling around you, and stare blurrily past the two people in front of you. You can feel pebbles beneath your hands, the ground sticky and remarkably warm.

"See, she's fine." It's unclear who each voice belongs to anymore. They both seem to blur together into one person. "She's not fine; look at her. Hey, can you stand?"

There are footsteps, then someone grabs you beneath the arm and hoists you upward - or possibly pushes Earth downward. "Are you okay?"

It occurs to you that the person is talking to you and that somehow you're on her feet again. There's another urge to run. Their grip on you is loose and you slip out of it without any effort, stumbling a few steps until it's the post office wall supporting you instead. Pain shoots through your skull and ties your stomach into an untangleable knot. You groan, lean your forehead against one of the bricks, and throw up.

" _Shit._ I told you she wasn't okay. I think she's bleeding."

"That's his blood."

"On the back of _her_ head?"

"She was on the ground!"

"Hey, we have to leave. What are we doing with her? Should we kill her?"

"Didn't you just want to help her?"

The words just barely process and your stomach heaves again, nothing numb anymore, a brutal reminder of a seven hour shift with no break for lunch. You slowly lift the back of your hand to your mouth and nose, holding it there as the nausea fades to a more tolerable range. The world switches directions on you. You take a few more steps, confused about which direction you're trying to go in, and the person grabs your arm again, tighter this time. There is a divide between your brain telling you that you need to pull away and run and your body's ability to follow through with the action. Your internal compass hits some sort of magnetic pole.

There are headlights in the distance, coming your direction.

"Who the fuck is that?"

The car pulls up in front of the café and the lights turn off. "Hey!" a man yells as his car door opens. "Hey, uh, you still here? I think I forgot my Nintendo!"

The squeal-like voice registers in your mind and you lift your head, some of the fog in your mind drifting away. It's Jeremy. _Jeremy._ Shit, it's Jeremy. Adrenaline hits you like a lightning bolt. You open your mouth to call his name, but a cold, clammy hand clamps down over your lips, successfully drowning out your voice. The person covering your mouth pulls you roughly back against them, their free arm wrapping tightly around your torso to prevent you from trying to run. You can feel every inch of their front against your back. They're smaller than you are, but too strong to break free from. You nearly trip as they drag you across the alley and press you up against the wall of the café.

Jeremy bangs on the door of the café. "Ah, shit," he mumbles. His door opens and closes again, and the lights turn back on.

 _No!_ You sob into the person's hand, tears overflowing down the entirety of your cheeks, soaking your face. You shake your head and try to scream as his car pulls away.

"She's definitely bleeding."

"Well, what do you want to do? Throw her out at the nearest hospital?"

"Too risky. Dude, there are security cameras at hospitals."

"Why can't we leave her? She hasn't seen us."

You realize through the disorientation that she's right. They're both wearing ski masks that cover their entire faces. You grab the hand over your mouth and try to pry it off, desperate both to speak and to _breathe_ (your nose is stuffy from crying already, and your lungs are about to burst). It doesn't budge.

"Because she's hurt. What if we leave her and she dies here?"

"It's a bump on the head."

"She's _bleeding._ She threw up…"

"And your hand is on her mouth now. Ew."

"What if we take her and figure out what to do with her later?"

" _That_ doesn't sound risky to you?"

"We can't keep standing here. Look, we can take her, and we can figure out how to kill her. Let's just not do it here next to this guy."

"So, you would rather _kill_ her than leave here, because she might die if you do? That makes no sense!"

"Let's just take her and _go._ We will figure it _out._ "

"Fine. But this is your problem to deal with."

You try to shake your head again as you're pushed out of the alleyway, the person behind you still pressed up against your back and covering your mouth. The world rocks back and forth and an imaginary baseball bat slams into your skull each time you move.

They stick close to the walls of the buildings as they slip down another alley and walk toward a blue Toyota Corolla with Florida plates. The taller woman opens the back door and the shorter one shoves you inside then shuts it behind you. You clambers toward the other side to get out, but the taller woman has already walked around to get in the driver's side.

"Nice try," she says as she climbs behind the wheel, "But you wouldn't have managed to get out anyway. The child locks are on."

You sit up in the middle seat and lean forward with your hands on her knees, trying to rope yourself under control and catch your breath. "Please let me go," you plead, barely able to make words, as both women close their doors and buckle their seatbelts, "I won't tell anyone. I'll say I left work early and I have no idea what happened." You're still trying to process the last several minutes of your life; you really do have no idea what just happened.

"Hey, keep your gun on her," the woman in the driver's seat says, "I don't want her trying to attack me while I'm driving."

"Right." The shorter woman pulls out her gun and turns to face you, her blue eyes the only feature visible from behind the mask.

You back away from the barrel with an unchecked yelp, pressing your back flat against the back of the seat.

"So, the plan is to kill her?" The driver asks.

"I guess..."

"Great." The woman driving pulls off her mask, brunette hair falling down over her shoulders. She turns the car mirror and looks at herself, fixing her hair.

"Well, now we have to kill her!" the other woman exclaims, "What the hell, dude?!"

"I can't see to drive with that thing on," she says, "And my lip gloss is smearing." She grabs a tube of lip gloss from the center console and applies it in the mirror. She caps it again then looks back at you as she puts it away, and sighs. "She's getting blood all over. This will be the third car this month I need to dump." She shakes her head. "Pick up that towel on the ground. I can burn that, at least."

You look away from the barrel of the gun at an orange beach towel on the floor. Almost on autopilot, you do as you're told and slowly lean forward to pick it up, losing sight of what you're supposed to be doing _with_ it as the car starts and another wave of nausea rushes through you.

"Put it on your head," the woman with the gun says, "Dude, you're really bleeding."

Are you? You slowly reach and touch the back of your head with your fingers. It's warm and wet, and blood clings to your skin as you shakily lower your hand to look at it. Your heart skips several beats. You sob and squeeze your eyes shut, clutching the towel in your hands as your breaths turn into quick, desperate gasps for oxygen.

"Put pressure on it." The woman with the gun leans over the seat and grabs your hands, forcing you to place the towel behind your head and hold it there.

"Your girlfriend is going to kill you." The woman driving pulls out of the alley.

"You think?" The woman with the gun sits back down, pointing the weapon at your knee. "What's your name?" she asks. She bumps your knee with the barrel of the gun when you don't answer.

"Chloe," You mumble. You have finals to take in the morning. You're supposed to be going to Med school.

"Last name?"

"Beale." You swallow as the car turns but your stomach doesn't seem to go in the direction with it. "I'm going to throw up again."

"Do _not_ throw up in here," the woman driving warns you, "Beca, if she throws up in here, I'm taking your car and you get to dump this one."

"How old are you?" The woman with the gun, Beca, asks.

"Twenty-one." You pull your feet onto the seat and bury your face in your legs. Not being able to see the gun provides a little comfort. "Just let me go. I swear to God, I won't tell. I promise."

"Dude, Stacie, come on…" Beca says, "She's terrified. What are we supposed to do?"

"This is not my problem," Stacie says, "Let Aubrey decide what to do with her."

Beca exhales a loud breath.

"Unless you wanna hide her; keep her as a side girl," Stacie suggests, "Are you two still fucked up over Tulsa?"

"Aubrey and I are _fine,_ " Beca speaks, venom suddenly dripping from her every word, "Tulsa wasn't her fault."

"Whatever you say," Stacie says, "But if you go back there and wipe all of that blood off of her, she looks like she might be really cute."

You pulls your legs in tighter, feeling even sicker. You tell yourself not to throw up, because if you throw up, they'll shoot you. It works.

"Okay, let's just hope Aubrey can figure this shit out," Beca says.


	2. Chapter 2

X

* * *

 **How To Get Away With Mercy**

* * *

 _You're cinematic razor sharp,_  
 _A welcome arrow through the heart._  
 _There is a darkness deep in you;_  
 _A frightening magic I cling to._  
 _\- Snow Patrol_

* * *

 **Aubrey**

* * *

You like the clean up after a kill – the smell of bleach as it burns your nostrils, the way rubber gloves stick to the sweat on your palms. It's a blessing for Beca, because she can't even clean up after herself – let alone figure out how to dump a body. And it's a waste of time to Stacie, because she likes to leave her bodies exactly where they fall – she likes to be known for her work. It's a reckless method for most, but Stacie is smart, practically a ghost – and, when she's in town, you're not necessarily needed. Neither is Beca, but she likes the change in target (and to shoot people), so she goes along for the ride. And you finally get to curl up with a Hallmark movie that doesn't include Beca's persistent bitching and snarky commentary. It's a win for everyone really – except maybe whoever ends up with a bullet in their head. But there are men out there who would pay to be shot by Stacie. Probably not by Beca, but no one dies with complete dignity.

Your phone rings, and you pop another veggie chip into your mouth as you lean over to grab it from the nightstand, not taking your eyes off the movie. The hotel bed creaks beneath you, and you internally groan, because Beca tosses and turns in her sleep, and that noise is going to be a pain in the ass tonight. The number is Beca's. You glance at the clock then hold the phone to your ear in silence – the way you have both agreed to answer in case it's not the other person calling.

"Uh, hey…" Beca says.

You relax back against the pillows again and grab another chip. "Hey, are you guys done?" You turn most of your attention back to the movie, smiling as the leading man confesses his love and hands the woman flowers. Movies are funny. Last time Beca seriously confessed her love, it was right after you stabbed a guy in the back (literally) then handed her the knife so she could double check your work. "How did it go?"

Beca sighs – a heavy, drawn out exhale. "Well, the guy is dead," she says, sounding overly optimistic about their hit, "Definitely dead. _Super_ dead..."

You frown. "Not on the phone," you remind her.

"Right," Beca breathes.

There is a sound in the background, and you can't quite make out what it is. "Where are you?" you ask, "You said no to the clubs this time, right?"

"Uh, we're actually almost there," Beca says, "To you, not to a club."

"Good." Another chip. "Did you want something?" you ask, a little confused about the call. A simple text would have sufficed.

"Nope. Nope, just calling to tell you we are headed your way." Beca clears her throat. "But, uh, hey?"

"Mhm?" you hum, only half paying attention. The motel is cheaper than you're used to, and the blankets have wrinkles that you're just now seeing.

"Never mind," Beca says, "I'll tell you when we get there. We're pulling in. Dude, I love you so fucking much." You can hear Stacie laughing in the background. "Please, don't be mad at me. I love you."

 _Mad_ at her? You open your mouth to ask her why you are no doubt about to be pissed off at her, but she hangs up on you – and that pre-fuels your anger. You look at your phone then at the window as headlights cause light to seep through the cheap drapes. That noise had better not have been a dog, because you told her _no_. Too many hotels don't allow them, and they bark. You roll up the bag of chips and mute the movie as car doors shut outside. Three of them, to be precise. Maybe it's someone else. You toss your phone at the end of the bed, and turn to face the door, waiting.

The door clicks and unlocks, and Beca walks in first, mask still covering her face. You know it's her, because few other people are that short. "Okay," she says right off the bat, talking with her hands, something you've noticed she rarely does unless she's upset, "You just need to let me explain…"

You're on your feet in an instant, and you wonder if maybe you should have changed out of your pajamas and gotten dressed. "The police better not be coming here, Beca. Were you seen?"

"What?" Beca asks, her eyes wide, "No. Well, I mean…"

Stacie walks inside, pulling a third person along with her, then locks the door behind them – the deadbolt.

You notice the blood first. It's impossible not to, even for someone who sees buckets of it all the time. It's everywhere – in the girl's hair, soaking her clothes on one side, splattered on her face. Tears mix with it and fall light red onto her t-shirt. She has her eyes squeezed shut, arms wrapped protectively around herself, and you're rendered immobile as you stare and wait for that explanation Beca claims to have. Silence, from Beca and Stacie. "Talk," you demand, " _Now._ "

" _Beca_ , here, didn't want a repeat of Tulsa," Stacie says, and your gaze snaps in her direction at the word, "So, she took someone as a hostage."

"Dude, would you shut the fuck up about Tulsa?!" Beca snaps.

"Is all of that _her_ blood?" You ask, looking at it all. The fact that this girl knows at least Beca's name escalates the severity of the situation. The fact that there is a stranger in your hotel room, alive, who probably knows Beca killed someone deserves a tornado siren.

"I don't think so?" Beca answers, "We kinda shot the guy while he was on top of her. I mean, he was attacking her, what else were we supposed to do?"

You don't know, but this clearly isn't it.

"But some of it's probably hers," Stacie adds casually.

You walk swiftly across the room, your frown tugging at half your face as the woman tries to back away from you, but is held in place by Stacie's grip on her arm. "What the hell did you guys do to her?" You try to assess the damage – determine what blood is coming from her and what isn't.

" _Us_?" Beca asks, and looks at Stacie.

You glance at them then decide they're not the priority right now. There will be plenty of opportunity to chew Beca out and get the answers you need later. Right now, their casualty is a bit more pressing. You reach out and take the woman by the upper arm, and place your other hand on her back. She's shaking like a leaf – and it's no fucking wonder. "Let go of her," you command Stacie, looking at where her nails are pressing against the woman's skin.

"What if she runs?" Stacie asks.

You look at her for a moment, purposely drawing out the silence – because do these two ever _think?_ "You're standing in front of the door," you point out, "Where is she going to _go?"_

"Right," Stacie whispers and releases her grip on her arm.

The woman chokes over a sob and slowly lifts her hand over the nail marks in her arm.

"It's okay," you try to assure her even though it isn't – and probably isn't going to be, and she looks at you for the first time. You give her a reassuring nod. "Let's get all of this blood sorted out. Okay?" You take a half step toward the bathroom, but don't try to drag her with you just yet – not after Beca and Stacie have already presented themselves as forces to be frightened of. "Come on."

She blinks away more tears and takes a step after you. It isn't as though she has a lot of choice, but her lack of trying to put up a fight is promising for all four of you.

You lead her into the bathroom, and flip on the light. The room is too small for all of you to squeeze into, and Beca and Stacie hover in the doorway as you lower the toilet lid so she can sit down. "What's your name?" you ask.

"Her name is Chloe," Beca answers for her.

You squat down beside her as she sits and glare at Beca. "I didn't ask _you_ ," you point out. You don't want to hear anything from her or Stacie right now, unless it's a clear, detailed explanation of what is happening and why. "Call for more towels," you demand, "And take off that stupid mask. No wonder she's scared." God knows Beca without that thing looks about as terrifying as a puppy looks.

Beca pulls the ski mask off her face and tries to blow away some of the hair that falls in front her eyes. Her eyelids are rimmed red, not like she's been crying, but like she's pretty damn close to it. She glances at Stacie then leaves the room and picks up the phone.

You turn your attention back to Chloe and try to remain calm. You're not feeling as panicked as you are enraged. "If you want to live," you tell her clearly, "You won't scream. Understand?"

Chloe nods and ducks her head, closing her eyes again.

You rub her back, a desperate attempt to comfort her, and look to make sure Stacie is still standing in the doorway. "Wet a towel."

Stacie grabs one of the towels from beside the shower and turns on the sink.

"With warm water," you add right before she can dip the fabric underneath the stream.

Stacie sighs and turns on the other faucet.

"I'm not going to tell if you just let me go." Chloe inhales and chokes over a sob at the time. "Please…"

"Okay. Let's figure out this blood and then we can talk about that." If there is a way you can just let her go, you can't think of it. "Are you hurt?" You look her over. There don't appear to be any injuries on her face or her arms.

Chloe hesitates for a moment then nods, her fingers noticeably tightening around the sides of her shirt. "My head…"

You stand up and look at her head. There is blood in her hair near the back, sticky like it's drying but hasn't quite gotten there yet. The rest of the blood may not be her own, but you have a sinking feeling that this belongs to her.

"She might also be sick," Stacie says and turns off the water, "She kind of, like, puked…"

 _Sick._ You shake your head at her. "She isn't sick," you snap, "You guys hit her in the fucking head. She probably a concussion. She needs to go to a hospital."

"No," Beca says, reappearing in the doorway. "Dude, no. She was already like that when we got there."

"Is that true?" you ask Chloe for confirmation. Your blood boils less when she nods, but you aren't sure if you can believe her – not with Beca and Stacie in the room, no doubt providing little more than intimidation.

There is a knock on the door, and Beca takes a step back, shutting the three of you in the uncomfortably claustrophobic restroom together.

"I'll cover her mouth," Stacie says and steps forward.

Chloe slides across the toilet seat so fast she would fall off if she doesn't accidentally crash into you instead. She shakes her head, lifts her hands to entangle her fingers in her hair, and turns her entire body away from Stacie.

"Don't." You grab the towel out of Stacie's hand. It's risky, but trusting that Chloe won't scream might gain some of Chloe's trust and push them toward a more positive outcome – one that somehow doesn't end with her dead. You try to wipe some of the blood from her hair and scalp, cringing as she flinches. "What hit you?" You keep your voice low as Beca speaks to the person bringing them more towels.

"The ground," Chloe whispers, her voice raw from crying.

That makes sense. It looks like a bad scrape that just ended in a lot of blood. You're more worried about the impact than the source of the bleeding now. It's impossible to see if there is any bruising or swelling through the blood and her thick hair, which just so also happens to be red. You wipe as much blood as you can from the hair and skin on her head then kneel back down and wipe the droplets of whomever else's blood off her forehead.

Beca opens the bathroom door again, almost hitting Stacie with it. She tosses a stack of towels on the sink. "Everything good?"

"No, Beca," you answer, not looking up as you toss the bloody towel in the bathtub, "Everything is not good. She has a head injury. I need another towel." Ideally, you could just turn on the shower – but there is a window in the bathroom, and if Chloe doesn't want to strip off her clothes with you in the room, you aren't sure you can trust her to not escape. She can't stay in the clothes that she's wearing though…

Stacie backs into the doorway again, giving the two of you more space.

"Can you just, like, calm her down?" Beca asks as Chloe sobs again.

You blink, needing a moment to make sure you're processing what she's saying correctly. "She has every _right_ to be crying right now." You place your hand on Chloe's back again. She doesn't bolt away from you like she does from Stacie, but that can probably be chalked up to shock. "Get her some clean clothes. She'll fit in yours better than she will in mine."

" _Really_?" Beca asks reluctantly.

Your nostrils flare, because Beca and Stacie seem set on making a hard situation even harder, and Beca takes that as her cue not to argue further. You don't understand why they didn't just kill the poor girl and not tell you about it. This has to be Beca's doing, because Stacie makes it no secret that, while she has never had a casualty, they come as part of the job.

"Are you Aubrey?" Chloe asks suddenly, her voice quaking along with her body.

Not only does she know Beca's name, she somehow knows _yours_ as well – along with your face and theirs. This is a waste – cleaning her up while she's still alive. Beca places a t-shirt and sweatpants next to the towels. You're going to have to kill her. Your expression turns pained, and you neither confirm nor deny her question. You want no part in this. But you can't stop yourself from making the inevitable more comfortable, because she isn't a hit. She's just an innocent person. "You can either shower with us in here or I can keep trying to wipe off the blood, but either way, you can't stay in those clothes."

The way you evade the question doesn't go unnoticed. Chloe's features start to crumble all over again and she shifts around on the toilet seat, twisting her hair tighter around her fingers.

You're going to kill her anyway. No, you're not. _Stacie and Beca_ going to kill her anyway. "I'm Aubrey," you decide to confirm, "How did you know that?"

"In the car," Chloe mumbles, her words almost lost to tears, "They said you were going to take care of this." She draws in a sharp inhale. "I have finals in the morning. I'm not going to tell…" She dissolves, nearly folding into herself, and you slide your hand up and down the length of her back. Stacie can kill Beca too while she's at it.

You draw in a breath, wondering if you should just have Stacie end it for her now rather than prolong the suffering. But you can't bring yourself to turn and mouth to her to grab your knife. A few months ago, this might have been easier. "Like I said…" You put on your best calm face even though your stomach is churning like milk into butter. "Let's deal with the blood, and then we can talk."


	3. Chapter 3

X

* * *

 **How To Get Away With Mercy**

* * *

 _You're cinematic razor sharp,_  
 _A welcome arrow through the heart._  
 _There is a darkness deep in you;_  
 _A frightening magic I cling to._  
 _\- Snow Patrol_

* * *

 **Beca**

* * *

From your perception over the years – and you have known Aubrey for quite a lot of years – people don't usually view Aubrey Posen as a kind person. And that's because she isn't a kind person. Pleasant? Sometimes. Kind? Never. You have seen her be nice in very select scenarios – to kids, to animals, to you (if you're lucky), and now to the hostage you dragged in like a stray cat you accidentally hit with your car. It actually kind of makes sense if you put emphasis on the whole _cat_ part. But Chloe isn't a cat – she's an actual fucking human, and it looks like Aubrey may be deciding to keep her after she takes her pretty little knife and lodges it in your skull. _Let's see if I can get this through your thick head, Beca._ It's kind of hot (watching Aubrey be nice, not the thought of her putting her knife through your skull, although watching her stab other people with it is a definite turn on). But you're too frozen in fear to be able to appreciate it.

Fuck.

(Fuck in regards to feeling frozen with fear. Not in regards to not being able to appreciate Aubrey in all of her nice-for-once glory. Jumping Aubrey is definitely not on the forefront of your mind right now, okay? But without Chloe and Stacie here, it could be.)

So. Fuck.

You hover near the door, unsure of how to help. But it doesn't appear like you're very needed after bringing the towels and the clothes. Aubrey seems to be getting through to her just fine. Probably because Aubrey didn't have a gun pointed at her and isn't holding back on expressing some compassion. You always thought it would be cool for someone to be terrified of you for once – but this isn't really the kind of scenario you imagined. "Do you need anything else?" you ask, wondering if being more compliant will put you back on Aubrey's good side at all.

Aubrey just shoots you a look that lasts for barely a second before she stands up and grabs the bloody towel out of the shower. Aubrey is going to have a lot to clean. Stacie is going to have a lot to dump and to burn. You're going to have a lot of reason to appear absolutely useless. But the guy is dead, so, there's that? She places the towel in the sink. "We're going to need to destroy your clothes," she tells Chloe, "Take whatever you need out of your pockets."

Chloe slowly untangles her fingers from her hair and reaches into both of her pockets. She pulls out a leather wallet, a keychain with keys and a bunch of other music-related keychains attached to it, and a piece of paper that starts to unfold itself enough that you can see it's a grocery list.

"Here." Aubrey takes the items from her, then stuffs them into your hands. "You asked if I needed anything. Hold her stuff."

You glance at the grocery list, and wonder why someone would need a list for so few items. "Well, I guess we're not holding her for ransom," you joke. Anyone with Ramen on their grocery list probably isn't bringing in a whole lot of cash. You snort and fold up the list, realizing then that Aubrey really does look like she wants to embed her knife in your head. You hold up the items with a sheepish grin then place them in your pockets.

"You're pushing it right now," Aubrey warns you then pulls back the shower curtain and turns to Chloe. "You can undress in the shower for privacy."

Chloe doesn't budge. She picks at the fabric of her jeans, not even looking up at the shower.

"I know you don't want to stay in those," Aubrey says, "They're disgusting."

"Do you need me to get out my gun?" You ask. If anything, you can be a threat. Chloe is clearly very threatened of you, because you watch her face scrunch up for what feels like the thousandth time. It's probably less you and more the gun, but…

" _No,"_ Aubrey interrupts all of your thoughts, and makes you wonder how disgusted with you she can actually get, because she's breaking all the records. She kneels back down in front of Chloe, eye-level with her, and rests her hands on Chloe's knees. "No one is going to hurt you in the shower. I'll make sure of it." She nods and pats Chloe's knee. "You'll be okay."

Chloe lifts her head, but rather than looking at Aubrey or the shower, she glances in your direction, not quite looking at your face. "I want them to leave the room," she whispers and turns back to Aubrey.

Aubrey nods and stands. "Get out," she tells you and Stacie.

"I think at least two of us should be in here," you argue. It's no surprise to any of you how volatile people who think they're about to be killed can be. "Someone needs to have your back."

"Then leave the door open," Aubrey says, "I said, _get out_."

You and Stacie both back away from the room before _your_ blood needs to be cleaned up next. There's a level of trust that you need to work with, be friends with, or, in your case, date a killer without living in constant paranoia that you're next. The thing about you and Aubrey is that she isn't impulsive – no, that's you – but, shit, she has had a lot of time to plan. Now is the right time to implement that whole trust thing. You walk over to your suitcase as Stacie hovers near the edge of the bed, and try to decide what the hell you're supposed to change into. You have a second set of pajamas, but those don't seem right to wear right now – not when you need to think of a plan to deal with Chloe and then possibly leave the hotel room to follow through with it. But you can always change again.

You should stop thinking of her by her name, just in case you have to kill her. That's how people get attached to the stray cats they bring home after accidentally hitting them with their car. They name them. You pull out a black AC-DC t-shirt and sweatpants, and toss them on the bed next to Aubrey's phone. It's about time for some new burner phones. Paying no attention to Stacie, who unmutes the TV, you strip off your clothes and inspect them for any blood droplets that have gone rogue. Clean. You stuff your clothes into your suitcase then redress in the t-shirt and pants. Chloe's DNA is probably inside your pockets now, but it's about time again to do an entire suitcase burn and replace everything.

"Shit," Aubrey hisses from the bathroom door, drawing your attention but not Stacie's now that she's wrapped up in the Hallmark Channel, "Chloe, are you okay?"

You take several steps toward the door, freezing when you hear Chloe (no, not Chloe, she is just The Hostage now) heave and vomit in the shower. She mumbles something that sounds like she's claiming to be fine, and you cringe and look at Aubrey.

Aubrey locks eyes with you and shakes her head at you. "You should have killed her," she mouths silently, "She's hurt, and we can't let her go." She's right. You should have called it a Mercy Kill on the spot. She turns and gathers up everything with blood on it – the towels, the clothes – then looks at Stacie. "Burn these when you dump your car."

Stacie looks between her and the TV, pauses to watch the end of the scene, then walks over and takes what Aubrey is holding. "Do you need me to come back?" she asks, keeping her voice low, "I can kill her."

"We'll call you after we figure it out," Aubrey says.

"Uh huh, but you _are_ going to definitely call me, right?" Stacie asks.

"Leave," Aubrey says simply.

Stacie looks at you. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Night," you answer and watch her walk to the door. You puff out your cheeks and look at Aubrey. "You want me to get your knife?" You resume mouthing the words in silence. "The shower's the best place to do it." Not that they don't already have to clean the entire hotel room anyway. "Dude, maybe we could hit her in the head and wipe her memory…"

"Because that clearly worked the first time," Aubrey whispers.

"I told you I'm not the one who hit her!" You mouth and throw your hands in the air.

"I think we should sleep on it." Aubrey glances at the shower.

"No, I think we should do it now," you reply. Where are you going to put her while you sleep?

"I need some time to think," Aubrey says.

"About?" you ask. There isn't much to think about when it comes to stabbing the girl then dumping the body.

"She's an _innocent_ person, Beca," she whispers, "She hasn't done anything wrong. We told ourselves we weren't going to become cold like that." Why the hell does Aubrey always have to be right?

You close your eyes and rub your forehead as the shower water turns off. You can hear Aubrey grabbing a towel and passing it to the hostage behind the curtain. Maybe there is a reason people in this business can do the right thing, yet still become cold…

"Wear these," Aubrey says, and you know she's passing her your clothes.

You open your eyes as the curtain opens and Chloe, it feels weird constantly referring to someone as 'the hostage', steps out of the shower. It would be a good name for a movie or a comic book character though – The Hostage. You remind yourself to text Jesse that idea. Your clothes fit her well. You didn't notice before when you were dragging her to the car, that while she isn't quite as small as you are, she's _tiny_. You're used to killing big brutes; you could easily snap this woman in half with your bare hands. It definitely doesn't make you feel any better. She reminds you of, what's the term on the internet? A cinnamon roll? She stands there shivering, hugging herself, and you feel guilty that you forgot to bring her some socks.

"There. That's better, right?" Aubrey gives you both a smile – the most forced smile you've ever seen.

Chloe sniffles. "I'm not going to go to the police," she whispers, beginning to remind you of a robot just repeating the same phrases over and over, "Please, just let me go."

It's hard to watch her shake like that. You back up out of the doorway and grab the extra blanket that's folded at the bottom of the bed. "Here." You walk back over and try to hand it to her, but she shuffles away from you like you're pulling your gun out again. "I'm trying to help you."

Chloe scoffs.

Aubrey takes the blanket from you. "She really is try to help you," she says, "We're all in a bind here, and we just want the best possible outcome for all of us."

Chloe rubs her face. "The best possible outcome is that you just let me go…"

"That sounds like the best outcome to us as well," Aubrey agrees, "But I think we all know it's not that simple. Why don't you let us explain ourselves?"

"Dude, I'm sorry you had to see someone die like that and get mixed up in all this," you decide to jump back in, "But you're not stuck with serial killers or some shit right now. We're here on a job, and you're not it."

"How do I know that?" Chloe asks. She leans against the bathroom wall, lifting one hand to the back of her head. Her face contorts when she touches her wound. She checks her fingers for blood. They're clean.

"Because if we wanted to kill you, you would be dead," Aubrey answers, "This would be a waste of time."

You have to remind yourself, this _is_ a waste of time. You _are_ going to kill her. The only reason you're drawing it out is because you feel like shit about it. She would have been fine had you just left her there with the dead guy – traumatized enough to keep a few therapists in business, but fine. "Do you _want_ us to kill you?" you ask.

"Why would I _want_ that?" Chloe asks, pressing closer to the wall.

"Because you're having a hard time cooperating," you answer, wondering how long it's going to take to get her out of the bathroom. The sigh you hear from Aubrey is a sure signal to shut up.

"She's _scared_ of us, Beca," Aubrey points out the obvious.

"I understand that…" You dramatize the point with your hands, "But just standing here isn't helping any of us."

Aubrey doesn't take her gaze off Chloe. "Let me look at your head again," she says, "And we can explain ourselves." She holds out the blanket. "We'll sit on the bed where it's comfortable."

"Fine," Chloe whispers. She slowly reaches out and takes the blanket, holding it by a corner so it unfolds itself. Still trying to be as far from you as possible, she wraps the blanket around her shoulders, and follows Aubrey from the bathroom to the bed.

You decide not to try to sit next to her. Instead, you grab the chair from the desk and flop down on it, slouching with your legs spread out.

"May I?" Aubrey asks Chloe, and motions to her head.

Chloe nods and lifts the corner of the blanket, rubbing it slowly black and forth across her lips.

Aubrey kneels down behind her.

"Ow," Chloe whimpers and flinches before Aubrey even touches her.

You arch your brows, and even Aubrey looks mildly amused. Stacie was right – not covered in blood, Chloe is pretty damn cute. Like a kitten or a flower or a snap chat filter kind of cute. _Gross._ Chloe also looks exhausted though, and, yep, definitely terrified. There are dark circles under her eyes, and it looks like maybe she's trying not to blink, because that might give you enough time to end her life. She's right.

"It doesn't look too serious," Aubrey says, and moves to sit beside Chloe.

You're not sure if she's telling the truth or not. You pull yourself upright and lean forward, resting your arms on your knees. "Alright, Dude, look, yeah, I killed someone…" You're not actually sure where you're going with this. "Definitely killed someone…"

"We kill people who deserve it," Aubrey saves your ass, "Like Arrow – but without the superpowers, and we get paid for it."

"Well, I mean, I would prefer to consider myself more like Deadpool or someone actually cool…" You frown. Arrow? Seriously?

Aubrey ignores you, but what else is new? "Like a vigilante mixed with an assassin," she further explains.

"A vigil _ass_ in." You grin.

"The guy they killed has killed more than ten women across the United States," Aubrey says, "It just took awhile to catch up with him, but we found him here, following you."

"So you _knew_ that he was going to do that, and you waited until he attacked me?" Chloe asks, pulling in breaths like the oxygen level in the room is lowering.

"He was smart," you defend yourself, "It was impossible to get him alone. It was either then and there or right after he killed you. He would have raped you and then slashed your throat and put you in that dumpster. That's his thing. Every single victim – assaulted and dumped in the trash to rot."

"So, you saved me." Chloe swallows hard. "Okay. Thank you. I told you over and _over_ that I am not going to go to the police, so can you please just let me go?"

"We just have one problem," Aubrey says, "We don't know you to take your word for that. You could walk out of here and then tell the cops everything."

"And you have no idea how many people would be assaulted or killed if you did that," you add. In the grand scheme of things, Chloe's life is completely insignificant up against hundreds of others. She's no more than a really adorable ant.

"So, it looks like we're at a bit of an impasse," Aubrey says, "And Beca and I need a night to figure out what to do that will work out for all of us."

A _night?_ "Wait, you wanna hold her here?" you ask, "You were serious about that?"

Chloe uses the blanket to wipe tears from her face then continues rubbing the edge of it against her mouth in a steady side-to-side motion.

"I think it's fair," Aubrey says, "It's better than making any rash decisions."

You tap your fingertips on the seat of the chair. "How do we know she isn't going to run while we're asleep?" you ask, "I'm not staying awake with her."

"I hate to do this," Aubrey says and gets to her feet. She walks over to one of their suitcases and digs through it, then pulls out a pair of handcuffs. "But I don't see a lot of other choices."

Chloe moans – a miserable guttural noise that you usually only hear from people who are already dying. She pulls her feet up on the bed and tucks her face into her knees, wrapping one arm behind her legs and the other in front of them.

"Here, Beca." Aubrey tosses the cuffs at you. It might be to you, but you can't catch for shit, and they hit you in the face. She smirks as you fumble with them to keep them from falling to the floor.

"Why _me?"_ But you already know why you. Because someone has to be the good guy; and Aubrey has taken on that role. That leaves you…the bad guy. You sigh and stand up, approaching Chloe at the edge of the bed. "Let's do this the easy way." She pulls away when you try to grab her wrist. _Or not._ "You're making this harder than it has to be." You grab her arm.

Chloe may be tiny, but she packs a hard kick. Her foot goes straight into your stomach – possibly right through all of your internal organs and out the other side, by the feel of it.

Your grip falters, but not long enough for Chloe to pull away. You laugh through the pain, and grab her by the neck, digging your fingers into her throat until she's choking for air.

"Beca, be gentle," Aubrey warns you.

" _Gentle_? I think she just punctured my spleen." You release her arm and cuff one of her wrists before you release her throat, trying not to be guilted by her coughing and sputtering. Now you just need somewhere to put her for the night. "Should I put her in the bathroom?" you ask Aubrey.

Aubrey looks appalled. "The bathroom? No, Beca. Why would you put her in the bathroom?"

"In case she pukes again or has to pee; I don't know!" You frown. It isn't every day you need to find a place to hide a body that's still fucking alive.

"The leg of the bed works," Aubrey says, "It's a heavy bed, and we'll both be near her in case she needs anything."

 _In case she tries to escape,_ Aubrey means. You grab her by the arm again and pull her to the floor. This time, she doesn't fight. It only takes a few seconds to hook the other cuff around the foot of the bed, closest to where your head will be. Shit. You should have put her on Aubrey's side. "Good night, Westley," you try to joke with her, quoting that 'classic' that Jesse has made you watch a thousand times, "Good work. Sleep well. I'll most likely kill you in the morning."

Chloe lifts her head, tears filling her eyes once more, and spits directly on your face.

You close your eyes and nod. That's fine. You're used to that. Probably deserved it.

"Get up," Aubrey says.

"As you wish." You get to your feet and wipe the saliva from between your eyes with the front of your shirt.

"Get out of the way." Aubrey pushes you off to the side, "And do not say, 'As you wish'."

 _It's never an inappropriate time to quote The Princess Bride, Becs,_ Jesse always tells you. Well, Jesse is a liar, and he should be killed in the fire swamp. You open your eyes and try to block out the knowledge that Chloe vomited and hasn't brushed her teeth. "Can I borrow your face wash?" you ask Aubrey.

Aubrey grabs a pillow, _your_ pillow, from the bed and places it on the floor next to Chloe. "Do you need another blanket?" She grabs the trashcan as well. "I'll get you some water and some Advil."

Somehow, even after it was _Aubrey_ who suggested the cuffs, Aubrey doesn't end up with spit in her face. You return to your suitcase and pull out your toothbrush so you can get ready for bed. If Chloe changes her mind and does decide to spit on her, you don't want to be present for the OCD meltdown. Aubrey joins you minutes later – no spit.

"Are you okay?" she asks.

You try to ask her what she means, but it doesn't come out as words with your toothbrush in your mouth. You keep brushing. This might be one of the most far from okay nights you have experienced in awhile.

Aubrey places the items she needs to get ready for bed on the counter and circles around behind you, wrapping her arms around your midsection with one of her hands coming to rest where Chloe kicked you in the stomach. "No surgery needed?"

You spit and rinse your toothbrush then look at the two of you in the mirror. "Your hand is inspecting the wrong spot," you inform her, smirking as she looks confused, "Try a little lower."

She frowns and smacks you in the stomach with her palm.

" _Ow_?" You turn to kiss her, but she's already moving away from you and grabbing her own toothbrush. "I'll see you in bed. You gave my pillow away, so you're going to have to share tonight." You leave your things on the counter for morning.

"We'll see." Aubrey stares at herself in the mirror and starts brushing her front teeth.

"Well, I'm getting there first, so…" You back out of the room and crawl onto the bed from Aubrey's side so you don't need to step over Chloe. These pillows are not big enough for two. You grab it and pull it to the middle, consider purposely hogging it, then decide you like your head attached to your shoulders. It's a good feeling – having your neck securely attached by your spine.

Aubrey follows moments later and sits down on the edge of the bed. She turns off the TV, moves her phone, then looks at the blankets.

"You gonna sleep sitting up tonight?" you ask.

She shakes her head and flips the light switch beside the bed, then lies down on her back next to you. Your noses brush as she turns to face you, only her eyes visible under the reflection of a street lamp shining through the drapes. "Good night."

You breathe a laugh. It doesn't feel like a good night. The air conditioner has the room freezing, especially compared to outside, and you make sure the blanket is over the both of you before casually sliding your hand under the front of her shirt and allowing it to rest on her bare stomach. You can feel her sigh as you absently trace made up shapes along her skin. "Night," you mutter even though neither of you are going to get much sleep tonight.


	4. Chapter 4

X

* * *

 **How To Get Away With Mercy**

* * *

 _You're cinematic razor sharp,_  
 _A welcome arrow through the heart._  
 _There is a darkness deep in you;_  
 _A frightening magic I cling to._  
 _\- Snow Patrol_

* * *

 **Chloe**

* * *

As a kid, you had a lot of fears regarding sleep. The normal kind. Fears about the dark. Monsters under the bed. They seemed to bother you for a longer period of time than your friends, who didn't need anyone to sit with them until they fell asleep at 12 years old. But then, it was like you woke up one day and they were just gone, and you stopped running into your parents' room every night. You don't remember the switch at all. But you feel it now – all of the fear rushing back, even though the monsters on top of the bed should scare you far more than the ones underneath. You want your mom – to be rocked in that creaky rocking chair in the living room, to hear the sound of her voice singing The Beatles' Blackbird, to remember what she smelled like, because for the first time, you can't recall it in your mind. When did you turn 21? Start college? Get kidnapped by a group of serial killers? You closed your eyes one night, and now you're here on the floor of a motel room, staring into the darkness under the bed.

You rub the edge of the blanket side to side across your bottom lip until it's raw, because you stopped sucking your thumb at eight, and you're a little old to start that habit back up again, regardless of the situation. For awhile, Beca and Aubrey whisper to each other, and then they fall silent – and you wonder how they can just fall asleep so easily with you lying there on the floor next to the bed. What time is it? Seconds pass like hours, and you should have asked to use the restroom before getting handcuffed to the leg of the bed. You slide your uncuffed hand between your legs, tell yourself you can hold it, and stare into the darkness at absolutely nothing.

Seconds pass like hours.

It could be one in the morning or it could be five – and you would have no way of knowing.

Your head feels like someone is repeatedly smashing a metal bar into it. Nausea turns your stomach like an off-balance washing machine. And scarier than anything under or on top of the bed is the thought of falling asleep and not waking up. Not that you could fall asleep. You really have to pee.

"Aubrey," you dare to whisper at some point in the night. Beca is closer, but Aubrey seems more likely to help. You wish you could speak in a way that only Aubrey could hear, because you're scared to wake Beca up by accident. Your goal is to pee, not be shot for needing to use the restroom. "Aubrey?" You shift and try to find a position that relieves some of the pressure on your bladder. You almost want her to wake up not only to help you, but also to provide you with a sense of safety – which is terrifying in and of itself. You're pretty sure Aubrey is the very definition of Stockholm Syndrome. You shouldn't _want_ to be around either of your captors. Not that you do. Except maybe a little bit, because Aubrey seems to have your comfort in mind – which doesn't make sense to you when you remember she's also one of the people holding you here and suggested handcuffing you to the bed. You try one more time. "Aubrey?"

Someone draws in a loud breath of air and rolls over, the entire bed creaking as they move.

"Are you awake?" you whisper.

"No." It's Aubrey's voice.

"I have to go to the bathroom," you tell her, "Really bad."

"So get up and go," Aubrey mumbles.

You frown. "You have me handcuffed to the bed," you remind her, "I can't get up and go."

"Right." More creaking. "Beca, get up." The bed seems to move back and forth, and you assume Aubrey is shaking her.

"Fuck you," Beca mumbles simply.

You quickly sit up. The metal handcuff rubs your wrist uncomfortably. "Can't you just unlock me?" you whisper, not having realized this would turn into a whole ordeal that would require waking Beca up as well. "I won't try to run or anything. I honestly just have to use the bathroom."

"Get up, Beca." Aubrey almost sounds like she's whining.

"It's dark," Beca grumbles, her voice muffled, "That means it's night. No."

"The person _you_ took needs to use the bathroom," Aubrey says.

You tell yourself you don't actually need to go as badly as you do. "I changed my mind," you whisper, "I'm fine."

"You like her more," Beca mumbles.

"I said get up, Beca!" There is a loud noise like Aubrey smacking her. You doubt it's the other way around, because Aubrey seems to instill a sense of fear in Beca – or at least has authority that Beca respects.

"Fuck you, Dude," Beca whines and turns on the light on her side of the bed, "Fuck."

From your spot on the floor, you can see Aubrey pull the blankets over her head. You realize your hand is still between your legs and you quickly move it, crossing them tightly instead.

"I need the fucking key." Beca crawls over Aubrey.

"The more you repeat a word, the less meaning it holds each time," Aubrey murmurs, "So shut the _fuck_ up."

Beca sighs. "Yes, Ma'am," she answers, the sarcasm evident.

"Seriously, Beca." Aubrey is starting to sound more awake. "Shut it before I shut it for you."

"I said _okay_." Beca rustles around then walks around the side of the bed and looks down at you, her face scrunched like her eyes are still trying to adjust to the light. "She's going to kick me again." She turns to face the bed.

It's tempting. "I'm not gonna kick you," you try to assure her, "I just wanna go to the bathroom. I haven't gone since I was at work." It's been hours. "Please." You squeeze your legs tighter, starting to feel desperate. You have more reasons to be scared of her than she does of you. You're the one who has to beg just to be allowed to use the bathroom. The only way you can get up is if _she_ allows you to. "The faster you let me up, the faster you can go back to bed," you point out.

"She's smarter than you are, Beca," Aubrey says.

" _No one_ is smarter than I am," Beca states and gives the blanket that covers Aubrey's head a tight smile.

"Maybe you can discuss that later," you suggest, practically starting to bounce up and down.

"Remember when you thought clouds were made by oil refineries?" Aubrey asks.

"I was like eight," Beca hisses, "I know how clouds are made, Aubrey."

"Do you?" Aubrey asks, "It's not by the cloud factories your dad drove us past?"

"Seriously, fuck you. You were a dick as a kid and you're still a dick now." Beca kneels down next to you.

You hesitate for a moment then decide to commiserate, wondering if you can take the opportunity to get on Beca's good side. "When I was a kid, I thought cucumber was spelled like _cute_ cumber, and my parents never corrected me. So I didn't know until I lost in the fifth grade spelling bee on the first word, and then started an argument with the judges in front of the whole school."

Beca blinks. "I don't care." She turns the key in the lock of the cuff around your wrist.

You scramble to your feet. The sudden movement darkens your vision, and you grab the side of the bed as stars explode in front of your eyes and the world rolls over.

"Well, _go,_ " Beca demands and makes a hand motion toward the bathroom.

You have to wait until you're sure you're not going to fall back down or vomit.

"Go," Beca says again, "Or I'm going to lock you back up."

"Sorry. I'm sorry. I'm going." You blink a few times as the room comes back into view. Rubbing your wrist, trying to regain some of the feeling in your hand as it tingles with pins and needles, you walk slowly toward the bathroom – Beca following directly behind you.

"Be gentle, Beca," Aubrey warns.

Beca stops in the doorway and slouches against the frame before you can close the door.

"I don't need a babysitter just to go to the bathroom," you inform her and stand beside the toilet.

" _Go_ ," Beca responds, "You have one minute." She rubs her eyes then looks up at the ceiling, zeroing in on the tiles.

Your bladder is getting ready to burst, and you uncomfortably let your hands rest around the waistband of your pants – which are technically Beca's pants. Ordinarily, undressing in front of someone wouldn't bother you, but you have no power in this situation – you're completely vulnerable, even with clothes on. "Maybe you could just step out…"

"Fifty seconds," Beca says.

You quickly lift the toilet lid then push down your pants, only as far as you need to, and sit down.

"Forty seconds."

Ten seconds definitely did not already pass. "It's not easy to go with you standing there," you inform her. It also doesn't help that if Aubrey decides to pull down the blanket, she'll be able to see you as well. And they can both hear you…

"Do I need to turn the water on?" Beca asks. "Thirty seconds."

You close your eyes and lean forward, trying to pretend they aren't there. Eventually, you just can't hold it anymore. Your body feels too warm, and you're not sure if it has to do with humiliation or your head injury. You will yourself to hurry up, worried she's still counting down. As you unroll the toilet paper around your hand, you realize this is what mortification feels like. "Could you just turn around?" you beg.

Beca puffs out her cheeks and bounces on her heels for a moment. "Five seconds."

You do what you need to do as fast as you can then yank up your pants and flush the toilet.

"You done?" Beca asks.

You decide not to answer her. You approach the sink and turn on the water then pump some soap into your palm and scrub your hands together. You feel dirty even as the water washes away the bubbles.

"Great," Beca says and looks back down, "Back to bed."

You turn off the water and dry your hands on a hand towel. Going back to how you were before doesn't sound all that appealing. "Maybe we could…leave the bathroom light on," you suggest and turn to look at her.

"Why?" Beca quirks a brow. "Are you scared of the dark?"

"No." You rub your lower lip with your pointer finger, trying to think up a logical excuse. "I stil, feel kind of sick. I need to be able to see the trashcan."

"It's right next to you; feel around for it." Beca steps toward you, and you instinctively take a step back.

There is a brief flash of a thought that if you start to cry some more, Aubrey might hunker down next to you and rub your back again. It makes you feel sick in an entirely different way. The thought is weird and uncomfortable, but you bring it back and cling to it, because you don't want to be curled up on the floor in the dark, alone.

"Fine," Beca concedes, "I'll leave the light on."

The light on is enough. You follow her out of the bathroom, back to the bed, not putting up a fight. You wonder if you should. Fight, that is. You might be missing your opportunity with Beca unarmed and Aubrey in bed. But just the thought of Beca's hand on your throat again nearly renders you immobile. She locks the cuff around your wrist once you're sitting down then stands up and looks at you. You slowly maneuver yourself onto your side and fix the blanket, then pull the trashcan in closer, because you do feel sick. You consider asking for something else for your head, because it's the pulsating pain that's causing most of the nausea.

Beca sits down on the edge of the bed and pinches the bridge of her nose. "You ever been to one of those fancy hotels with the origami?" she asks out of nowhere.

For a moment, you think she's talking to Aubrey. But Aubrey must have fallen back to sleep, and she's still facing your direction. You aren't really sure what she's talking about, fancy hotels with origami, but then again, you could barely afford a Motel 6 if you wanted to travel. "No," you whisper.

Beca stands back up and returns to the bathroom.

You sigh and pull your legs up closer to your chest, not sure you're ever going to get some sleep. Aubrey seems smart. Maybe she knows if that whole sleeping with a concussion thing is just a myth or not…

Beca comes back with a towel and kneels down next to you, spreading it out on the floor. She exhales a laugh. "Aubrey said this wouldn't come in handy."

You stare at her in confusion and watch her start to fold the towel, feeling like you missed a vital part of the conversation. But she isn't snapping at you. So you don't say anything.

Beca holds up the oddly folded towel.

You blink a few times. "I don't understand…" you admit.

"It's a lobster." Beca wiggles two pieces that stick out. "See the claw things? I thought Aubrey would like it if I learned to make the dog. The lobster is more annoying."

You can see it now that she pointed out the claws; it does look like an origami lobster. "Oh," is all you manage to sputter out, "Um." You pause, not sure what's going on. Maybe something is _wrong_ with Beca. "That's really good?"

"Here." Beca places it next to you.

Oh. _Oh._ You look at the towel lobster and realize it's supposed to be something to comfort you. You pull it closer, hugging it against your chest. It kind of works. "Thanks." You tuck the lower half of your face against its head.

Beca stands up and climbs back into bed. "Go the fuck to sleep."


	5. Chapter 5

X

* * *

 **How To Get Away With Mercy**

* * *

 _You're cinematic razor sharp,_  
 _A welcome arrow through the heart._  
 _There is a darkness deep in you;_  
 _A frightening magic I cling to._  
 _\- Snow Patrol_

* * *

 **Aubrey**

* * *

You sigh and rub your eyes with the palm of your hand then glance over Beca before looking down at the floor. It doesn't look like waking up is going to be a problem for Chloe, because she's already awake, staring absently at the space under the bed, making her lower lip bleed from picking at it. If the dark circles under her eyes tell you anything, it's that Chloe probably didn't even go to sleep to begin with. She doesn't acknowledge that you're staring at her, doesn't even seem to realize that you're awake. And you consider that maybe you should kill her right now and put her out of her misery. You can do it before Beca even wakes up. Just get it over with. After sleeping on it, you've realized you don't have a lot of options here. You don't have _any_ options.

Your knife is in one of your bags. Still drowsy, you turn and slide off the bed onto your knees beside your things. Chloe has to know you're awake now. You block the view of your bag with your back as you unzip it and pull out the knife that Beca complains is too damn pretty. According to her, anything called a 'butterfly knife' isn't worthy of stabbing someone – let alone yours be anodized titanium. But the curve of the blade and the hook on the end get killing people done just fine. How do you want to do this? Stab her? Slice her throat? You weren't prepared to be cleaning blood out of a hotel room carpet this morning. You can do it. But it wasn't on your to-do list.

Something quick – that's how you want to do this. The throat bleeds a lot, but it's fast, and she'll probably go into shock and not feel much after the initial cut. You slip your knife into the pocket of your pajama bottoms then close your bag and stand up. Maybe after being handcuffed to the bed all night, death won't even seem that bad. You walk around the room, the carpet cold on your feet, then kneel down between Chloe and the bedframe. One clean cut? Or stab it through a major vein? You usually make up your mind faster than this.

Chloe sniffles and glances at you in confusion. She slowly, shakily pushes herself upright and pulls her knees up to her chest, wrapping her free arm around them. The lower half of her face comes to rest against her arm, blocking all immediate access to her neck. For a moment, she hesitates. "Morning," she whispers, her voice low and raspy.

You swallow a sudden dryness in your throat. Everything tells you not to talk to her. She's in a very vulnerable position, and in one swift move, you could overpower her and take care of this problem once and for all. But that's part of the problem; you don't just attack innocent, vulnerable people. "Morning." It's better than just staring at her in silence, trying to make up your mind. "Can I see your head?"

Chloe just nods against her arm.

There isn't enough light in the room to adequately see anything, and you'll feel like an idiot pretending like you can see whether or not Chloe's head is okay. So you get back to your feet. "I'm going to get a flashlight. Do you still feel nauseous?" You keep an eye on her as you walk around the bed, and through the dim light, you can see her just shrug a response. "Do you feel dizzy?"

"I don't know," Chloe whispers, "Kind of."

You grab your flashlight out of your bag then walk back around the bed. "Pain, on a scale of one to ten," you request as you kneel back down.

"Eight," Chloe mumbles, her voice muffled by her arm.

"Nausea?" you ask.

"Like a five," Chloe answers.

"Dizziness?"

"Seven." Chloe glances at you, and you can see the discomfort on her face.

She's a trooper, you'll give her that. Beca _could have_ kidnapped someone who remained in hysterics the entire time. You've killed a few people like that. There was that guy in Florida who liked to shoot dogs with BB guns; that bastard cried for damn near five hours. Beca could have killed him quickly, but he never spared his victims the pain, so why spare him. "Tilt your head down." Chloe should be spared. You tell yourself that, but you leave her in pain anyway, shining your flashlight on her head, moving her hair around with your fingers. There is dried blood on her scalp, and the bruising is obvious now. She flinches as you lightly brush your fingers over her scalp. "Lift your head and look at me."

Chloe does exactly as she's told, shifting so that she's sitting crisscross in the process. She scoots closer to the leg of the bed and tries to adjust the handcuff on her wrist.

After she's situated, you shine the light into one of her eyes and then into the other. Her pupils respond normally, so that's a good sign.

"Is it bad?" Chloe whispers, sounding close to tears, "I want to know if it's bad."

You turn off the light. "I think it could be a lot worse." You're not a doctor, but you're not exactly ignorant when it comes to this stuff either. You see enough body parts to know what goes where and how things are supposed to function. You just _probably_ couldn't remove someone's appendix and keep them alive while doing it. Now that you think about it, it couldn't hurt to give it a shot just to try. You realize that you're frowning, because all of these years with a knife, you could have been practicing some serious surgeon skills… "What do you usually eat for breakfast, Chloe? Better yet, what do you _want_ for breakfast?" Your knife is burning a hole in your pocket, telling you you're a coward. But even prisoners on death row get a last meal.

Chloe rubs her eyes with her fist and responds only with a half shrug.

"Beca likes breakfast sandwiches," You tell her, realizing your question really wasn't a lot to go on, "I usually find somewhere to grab good coffee. Is there anything you _don't_ eat?"

"I don't, um…" Chloe pulls at a loose string on the blanket. "I don't eat meat."

"Vegetarian or vegan?" you ask.

"Just vegetarian." She twists the string around her finger, letting her finger turn red.

That's easy enough. You pat her hand. "I'll be back," you whisper, "Don't harass Beca too much." Knowing Beca, she'll sleep until you get back, unless Chloe wakes her up. "Do you need to use the bathroom before I leave? I'm sorry we didn't ask last night."

Chloe unravels her finger, staring at it a moment before she nods. "Yeah."

"I'll get the key." You stand up and look at Beca, trying to determine where she put it. Probably her pocket. You crawl onto the bed and reach into the fabric of her pajama bottoms. _Jackpot._

"Too early for sex," Beca grunts and shoves your hand away after you grab the key.

" _That_ is not what I was doing." You wrinkle your nose at her and backhand her shoulder. Of course, that's what she assumes. You lower yourself back down next to Chloe and unlock her wrist. Her skin looks red and bothered where the metal was wrapped around it, and you feel bad knowing you're going to have to lock her back up in a moment. "Go ahead."

Chloe grabs the edge of the bed and digs her fingernails into the blanket as she pulls herself to her feet. It looks like more of a challenge than just standing up should be, and you quickly get up and grab her arm to help her. "I'm okay." She shrugs your hand away then rubs her arm. "Aubrey?"

You raise your eyebrows.

"Can I…" Chloe pauses. Whatever question she has, it comes with even more difficulty than standing. "Can I just go to the bathroom by myself? I won't close the door all the way."

"Oh. Um..." You look at the bathroom. Chloe is in no shape to be able to crawl through the window and run; she doesn't even look like she can open it. If she did, you would hear it. You nod. "Mhm. Just leave the door cracked."

"I could even - _oh._ " Chloe stares at you in shock.

"If I think anything is weird, I'm going to come in," you let her know, "And I know how to break down a door." You quite enjoy breaking down doors; mostly because you're better at it than Beca is. Roughly a year ago, Beca injured her arm throwing herself into a door that wouldn't budge, nor was it locked. You catch yourself before you start laughing at the memory.

"Okay," Chloe breathes and nods. She almost looks like she's going to smile. "Thank you. I'll be really fast." She squeezes between you and the bed, reaching for the wall once she no longer has anything to hold onto. As promised, she leaves the bathroom door cracked.

"Hey, Beca," you whisper, walking around the bed to get to your bag. "Beca?"

"What?" Beca groans.

You smirk. "Remember that time you tried to break down an unlocked door?" You kneel down next to your things and start pulling out your clothes for the day. You're going to have to skip jogging – just this once. The thought makes your skin crawl, but it's fine. Really.

Beca is silent for a moment. "Shut up, Aubrey," she whines and rolls onto her stomach, "You're really being a dick."

You breathe a laugh and settle on a pink t-shirt and jeans.

The toilet flushes and the sink turns on, then Chloe walks out of the bathroom.

"Dude, you let her go to the bathroom alone?" Beca asks.

"She isn't three, Beca," you answer, "I trusted she could manage." You stand up and toss your clothes onto the bottom of the bed.

"I've had like eighteen years of practice peeing by myself," Chloe comments, "I think I'm okay at it now."

You press your lips together to keep yourself from laughing. "That's more years than you've had, Beca."

"I'm _younger_ than she is!" Beca exclaims then face plants in her pillow.

"And a late bloomer," you make sure to add. You snatch the pillow from beneath her head, then walk around to place it on the floor so Chloe can lie back down with two. "I'm going to have to recuff you until I get back."

The relief on Chloe's face from when you told her she could use the bathroom on her own completely vanishes. She diverts her gaze to the ground as she walks back over, grabbing the bed in order to sit down again.

"I hate both of you," Beca states, "One of you significantly more than the other, but still both of you."

You turn all of your focus on Chloe as she lowers herself down onto her side, trying to make sure she's comfortable – or as comfortable as a person can be on the floor. The cuffs are another story; it's hard to make them comfortable while still being able to rest assured she isn't going to break out of them. You do your best. "I'll be back." You give her arm a reassuring squeeze, although you're sure the return of your presence isn't at all a positive thing. But you could be wrong seeing as you are leaving her alone with _Beca_.

"I want one of those hamburger and egg sandwiches," Beca announces, " _with_ ketchup this time."

"Well, you know what, you should have thought about that before you told me you hate me." You stand and lean over, slipping the key back into her pocket.

Beca immediately rolls over onto her back and opens her eyes. "Seriously?" she asks, "You're not going to get breakfast?"

"I'm going to get breakfast," you answer, "I'm going to get breakfast for myself and Chloe."

"Wait, what?" Beca looks horrified for a moment before she frowns at you. " _Dick_." She puffs out her cheeks and closes her eyes.

God, she can be so gullible. You take the opportunity to lean down and kiss her lips, and she lets out the air in her mouth to try to kiss you back which just makes it really fucking awkward. "What the hell?" You nearly fall forward on top of her.

Beca snorts. "Sorry."

"You're an idiot." You slap her stomach and stand up. "I'm going to get dressed, and then I'm going to get breakfast. Be gentle with Chloe; she isn't one of our hits." Regardless of whether or not you're going to kill her, see isn't a hit and shouldn't be treated as such. "You do know how to be nice, don't you?"

Beca reaches one of her hands out to the side. "Hand me my phone so I can look up the definition, and then I'll let you know."

Your nostrils flare a little at her response. " _Both_ of you, be _good_."


	6. Chapter 6

**X**

* * *

 **How To Get Away With Mercy**

* * *

 _You're cinematic razor sharp,_  
 _A welcome arrow through the heart._  
 _There is a darkness deep in you;_  
 _A frightening magic I cling to._  
 _\- Snow Patrol_

* * *

 **Beca**

* * *

"Hey, Beca?" Chloe whispers.

You flop over onto your side so your back is to her and wrap your arms around your pillow. It's too early in the morning for this shit. You keep your eyes closed, hope Aubrey doesn't seriously skip on bringing you breakfast, and try to focus less on Chloe and more on falling back to sleep.

"Are you awake?"

No such luck on the 'less Chloe, more sleep' thing. "What?" you ask bluntly. She can't need to use the restroom; Aubrey just let her go.

"You and Aubrey are dating?" Chloe asks.

You roll onto your back and crack one eye open, a little thrown off by the question. "Why does it matter if we are or aren't?"

"So, you're, like, girlfriends?"

"That is the general idea of dating." You really don't know who is more annoying in the morning now – Aubrey or Chloe. At least Aubrey always leaves at some point then comes back at a more acceptable time.

"I have a boyfriend," she says.

"Congratulations." He must never have to deal with her in the morning. You pull the blankets up higher and consider asking Aubrey to come back. If she likes this girl so much, she should have taken her along.

"He's going to look for me if you don't let me go."

"If I were him, I would be celebrating right now." The words just slip out, but whatever. You pinch the bridge of your nose. The truth is, you're not even frustrated with her. You're pissed at yourself for getting you and Aubrey into this mess, and she's a easy target for that anger. "Go to sleep."

Chloe falls silent for a moment, and you hear her shuffling around before she settles down. "He will look for me," she whispers, her voice muffled.

"Great," you mumble back. For your own sanity and need for sleep, you hope he finds her.

xxxxx

"Beca, wake up."

Aubrey wasted no time this morning; usually she goes jogging and you're ready to be woken up by the time she gets back. Unless she did go jogging and really didn't stop for breakfast – in which case you're _really_ not ready to get out of bed. "No."

"I said wake _up_ , Beca." Aubrey grabs your shoulder and violently shakes it, the entire bed quaking under the movement like there's an earthquake happening.

"Jesus!" You bolt upright and pull back from her, nearly falling off the side of the bed. Falling on top of Chloe could only make the morning that much worse.

Aubrey sits back on her heels, and she looks like she might be taking that as a compliment.

"You're more like Satan. What time is it?" You look around for the clock. _6:32._ "Dude, it isn't even seven in the fucking morning. We had an agreement, not before nine -"

"I have breakfast," Aubrey cuts you off, her lips curved downward in an offended frown.

You run your fingers through your hair and look at her. "The Devil _did_ fall from Heaven." You offer her a tight, going to pretend to be apologetic smile that only makes her scowl at you. God, she's fucking hot in that stupid, girly pink shirt with her hair pulled back, messy strands falling perfectly next to her face. _Now_ would definitely not be too early for sex (regardless of it being too early to be awake). "You want the handcuff key?" You're not sure it comes out as suggestive as you mean it to.

Aubrey blinks and draws in a breath. "No, I want you to get up and get dressed."

 _Right_. It's not like you can do anything with Chloe there anyway. Your smile becomes tighter and you nod and push back the blankets. Not about to try to spark another conversation, especially not one about you and Aubrey, you try to avoid Chloe by climbing around Aubrey and off the bed on the side closest to your things. "Why so early?" you ask.

"We have another hit," Aubrey answers, "My dad messaged me in the car."

"Already?" You glance at her then dig through your suitcase.

"It's in Philadelphia. We can stay with Amy in New York. It'll be a bit of a commute, but I'm sick of hotels," Aubrey says.

"Yeah, me too." They're not always bad; especially when Aubrey's dad goes out of his way to set them up in the nicer ones. But something about them is exhausting – something beyond the checking in and checking out and Aubrey slaving over making sure the place holds no trace of your existence after you leave. You grab a t-shirt and a pair of jeans.

"After you change, I'll wake up Chloe," Aubrey says, "You two can have breakfast in the car while I clean."

Wake her up? You glance underneath the bed. She's on her stomach and has half of her face pressed into the pillow, and she's definitely out like a light. She might even be drooling. You can't even be amused, because even asleep, she looks miserable. "Look, I know we don't want to kill her…" She might be annoying in the morning, but not enough to deserve to die. "But we have to do something, now. And it sure seems like the only option here is to kill her." You glance at her again, make sure she's actually asleep. She hasn't so much as budged.

Aubrey is silent.

"Aubrey." You look up and snap your fingers to get her attention. "Earth to Aubrey."

Aubrey jumps a little then raises her eyebrows.

"Dude, are you listening to me?" You ask. "Pull our your knife and lets just…take care of this."

"I was thinking," Aubrey says, "While I was out getting breakfast."

"And?" You stand up.

"Maybe we should take her to New York."

You rub one of your ears, unsure of you heard her right. Take Chloe to New York? "Like, _with us_?" you ask.

"I don't know, Beca," Aubrey quips, "Do you think it'd be better to ship her FedEx?"

You narrow your eyes. You hate Aubrey's joking tone. It's so serious and sweet, and has a way of making you feel like you have an IQ lower than a rock. "You know what I meant," you hiss, trying to keep your voice down, "We can't take her to New York. What the hell would we do with her there?"

"Hear me out on this," Aubrey says and also stands up.

"No." Aubrey is smart – there is no denying it. You know it. _Aubrey_ knows it. The problem is, during those rare moments when Aubrey isn't so smart, only one of you realizes it. And you have a feeling this is one of those moments. "No. Let's call Stacie and have her deal with it, if we have to." You walk into the bathroom, frowning as Aubrey follows you and closes the door.

"Just listen to me, Beca." She sits down on the edge of the shower.

Well, you were going to shower, but now you're just going to change your clothes and remove yourself from this conversation as quickly as possible. You place your clean clothes on the sink counter and pull off your shirt.

"What if we recruit her?" Aubrey asks.

You really must be going deaf.

"We're both expected to recruit at some point," she continues.

"Not like _this_." You put on a bra and a clean shirt then pull off your pants. "We're expected to get pregnant or kidnap a -"

"We are kidnapping," she points out.

"A _child_ ," you finish, "You cannot adopt a grown adult. That's weird."

"I don't want to take a kid, Beca." Aubrey doesn't look ready to break on this matter. "And, at this moment in evolution, neither of us is getting the other pregnant."

"I know you don't want to take a kid," the words slip out before you can stop them, "Or else we would have had one in Tulsa."

Aubrey immediately stands up. "He was too old, and you know it."

You finish changing your clothes and look up. She looks like she's about to cry, and you ignore a twinge of guilt. "We cannot take her." The idea is ridiculous. There is a reason kids are easier to train than adults. Adults are set in their 'morals', whatever they may be. "If you want to recruit, we can go out and find a kid who would be better off with us anyway. My dad took me, and I turned out just fine. And you _know_ your dad is expecting you to recruit a boy."

"He was also expecting me to be a boy, but he copes with his disappointment," Aubrey replies, her voice unusually thick, "Just wait until he finds out about _us_. Nothing will bother him after he kills me."

"He isn't going to kill you." You're not sure how you can assure her of those words when you can't even assure yourself of them. Both of your fathers are likely to kill you if they find out you're more than just the 'partners' they raised. You close the distance between the two of you, ignoring as she turns and backs herself up against the wall. "We can't _keep_ her. Something has to be done. Do you want _me_ to do it?" It's not exactly a secret (to you anyway) that the murder portion of your job can be Aubrey's least favorite part sometimes. _Sometimes_.

Aubrey draws in a deep breath that presses your chests together as you wrap your arms around her waist and try to pry her away from the wall. "I think we should wait."

"The longer we wait, the harder it's going to be, Aubrey." You reach into her pocket and pull out her knife. "Open this shit for me, and I can have her gone with one cut." You're not about to shoot her in the middle of the hotel room. And smothering would feel far too personal. Honestly, you're not sure you can kill her with one cut from Aubrey's knife when you're not even sure how it works (despite watching her use it time and time again), but two cuts maximum isn't bad. On second thought, you know how a knife works; Aubrey just needs to buy one that you don't feel is going to fly across the room whenever you try to open it.

Aubrey takes the knife from your hand and has it open before you even have a chance to blink. She tosses it in the air and makes you fucking nervous for her fingers as it spins in a circle then she catches it again with ease. _Show off_. She spins it around like it's nothing more than a fidget spinner to her then stops it and touches the tip of the blade against the side of your neck. "It's open."

"Yeah, I can see that." You wonder if she's going to draw blood. The blade is so sharp that last time you accidentally cut yourself with it, you didn't even feel it. But Aubrey knows just the right amount of pressure to apply to achieve whatever she wants with the thing, like it's a biological part of her anatomy - and she _does_ occasionally draw blood . You don't dare move, because that's how _you_ cut _yourself_ last time. You can't even blame Aubrey, because time and time again, she has warned you to be still.

"I think we should keep her for now," Aubrey says, "If it doesn't work out, at least we'll know we tried."

"I think you should get your knife away from my neck," you retort.

"Do you?" She leans forward, your lips barely brushing.

Your entire body suddenly feels hot on the inside, and you realize you might need to be the one backed against that wall – for support before your legs give out. She smells like clove cigarette smoke and vanilla coffee, and it makes your knees feel weak. " _And scene_ ," you let the safe word spill before Aubrey can get you worked up.

Aubrey lowers her knife and flips it closed. She looks a lot less disappointed than you hoped she'd be, making you wonder if she's just trying to seduce you into keeping Chloe. "So?" she asks. Yep, that is definitely what she's doing.

You look at the closed bathroom door. This is a terrible idea; you can feel it all the way through you. It would have been more productive to have felt this last night before _you_ took Chloe with you and brought her back here – essentially ending her life no matter what you choose. "Fine, but this will never work, Aubrey. It won't work."

"But at least we _tried_." Aubrey stuffs her knife back into her pocket. "Text Stacie. Tell her we're leaving early and won't be needing her assistance with Chloe."

"Right." You turn and grab your pajamas from the counter. She's going to need to unlock Chloe, so you dig the key from your pocket and toss it at her. Her catching skills aren't even impressive anymore; they're just ridiculous, and she pockets the key with ease. Again, _show off._

"Let's, uh…" You make a vague hand motion toward her pocket containing the knife. "Finish that later, yeah?" You're not sure how with Chloe and a fourteen hour drive ahead of you, but at least in fourteen hours, you'll have the option of dumping Chloe off on Amy.

Aubrey nods.

"Great." You leave the bathroom, feeling like you've been sucked into an alternate dimension where you're life is about to be completely different. "Great…" Chloe is still sleeping. You toss your clothes in your bag then pull out your phone and open a text message to Stacie.

 **Beca** : _got another job. dont need ur help with the current situation._

It's early, so you don't expect a text back for awhile. You glance at Aubrey as she walks around the bed to wake Chloe. Satisfied that she won't be paying attention to you for a few moments, you open a text – this time to Jesse.

 **Beca:** _need details on a person in atlanta. Chloe Beale. 21. goes to school here. ASAP. dig deep on this one._

"You know what?" Aubrey says, and stops near the edge of the bed, "You did this. You wake her up."

You raise your hand to catch the key - and, when you miss, you begin to think Aubrey just likes hitting you in the face with things on purpose.


	7. Chapter 7

X

* * *

 **How To Get Away With Mercy**

* * *

 _You're cinematic razor sharp,_  
 _A welcome arrow through the heart._  
 _There is a darkness deep in you;_  
 _A frightening magic I cling to._  
 _\- Snow Patrol_

* * *

 **Chloe**

* * *

You wake up to what feels like an earthquake, but in reality it's just Beca shaking your shoulder.

"Dude, get up, we're going out to the car."

"You could be more gentle," Aubrey points out.

"More gentle _how_?" Beca asks.

"Just be more gentle," Aubrey says simply.

" _Hooooow?"_ Beca draws out the word.

You roll over so your face is pressed against the floor, and all of your focus is drawn to your head. The pain has localized to the back of your skull; it also feels about a hundred times worse. It pulsates every few seconds, and with each throb comes another wave of nausea. Their voices make it worse. All you want to do is go back to sleep.

"Get out of the way," Aubrey demands, and Beca immediately stands up and backs away from you. She kneels down in Beca's place and rests her hand flat on your back, shaking you more gently. "Chloe? It's time to get up. You can sleep more in the car."

The _car_? Of course, you can't stay here in this hotel forever. You'll also get plenty of sleep when you're dead – after they _kill_ you. You elicit a small moan as you try to lift your head, then press the heels of your hands against your eyes. It takes you a moment to realize you've been uncuffed.

Aubrey pats your back. "I bought breakfast," she says, "No meat."

"No meat?" Beca mumbles, "Seriously?"

"Do you _want_ to eat, Beca?" Aubrey asks, stilling her hand on your back, "Or would you rather clean while I take her to the car?"

That actually sounds more ideal. You try to nod, not that your vote matters anyway.

"Vegetarian breakfast in the car, it is," Beca answers with forced enthusiasm.

"Here, let me help." Aubrey grabs you by the arm, and you're forced to sit up.

The world moves in several directions at once. You accidentally slouch sideways against Aubrey's arm until you figure out how to sit up on your own. Fortunately, she doesn't seem to mind. She waits until you're balanced then slowly hoists you upward until you're sitting on the bed instead of the floor. "What time is it?" you mumble.

"The ass crack of dawn," Beca mutters under her breath, and Aubrey shoots her a glare.

"I have to go to class." What if class already started? The thought wakes you up a little more, but everything continues to feel like it's moving in slow motion. "You have to -"

" _Let you go_ ," Beca finishes the sentence for you, "We heard you the first eight hundred times. Not gonna happen, Kid."

"Beca, _stop_ ," Aubrey commands her.

"She's going to figure it out eventually!" Beca defends herself, "After we've been driving for hours and she realizes we're halfway to Philly and New York."

"Philly?" As in 'Philadelphia'? No, that doesn't make sense. You lift your head a little further and immediately regret it. "No. You said that we were going to figure this out." Talking begins to make you out of breath. Or maybe that's the panic weighing on your chest. You look at Beca. "You said that Aubrey would figure this out, and then I could, and then, and then I could go."

"No," Beca says slowly, "That is not what I said. That is way more specific." She points at Aubrey. " _She's_ the one intent on taking you with us."

Aubrey doesn't seem at all bothered by the accusation. "I want to keep you alive," she says, calmly, "Do you want to stay alive, Chloe?"

Yes, but not like this. You answer with a meek nod, because any perceived doubt could end with you dead. Any argument. _Anything_ that could make them regret their choice – _Aubrey's_ choice – to allow you to live. You tell yourself that there will have to be a moment where you can escape at some point between Atlanta and Philadelphia or New York or wherever you're going – a place where they slip up and you can take advantage of the situation.

"Hey, can we move?" Beca asks, "I'm starving, and we have a long drive."

You have to use Aubrey's help to stand the rest of the way up and find your bearings, because your legs feel like jello and your head feels like lead – and everything else is just tingling. You manage to take one step before Beca blocks the way.

"Bathroom first," Beca states firmly and points in that direction, "We are not coming back into this room after we leave."

The corners of Aubrey's lips quirk upward in amusement. "And you want a _dog,"_ she says smugly to Beca, "You do realize you have to stop being lazy to walk those, right?"

"Yeah, but dogs are -" Beca stops herself, "You can _pet_ them."

"I have an idea," Aubrey says, "This can be a pre-dog responsibility. If you show me you can be responsible and compassionate with a human, then I'll get you a dog."

"You're – you're joking, right?" Beca asks, looking semi-terrified of the idea.

Aubrey nods. "Yes, now get out of the way."

Beca takes a step back.

Aubrey walks you to the bathroom door then stops. "Do you need help?"

You immediately shake your head. Seconds later, you regret it. Shaking your head, not denying the need for help. You replace Aubrey with the wall for support and manage moving on your own, leaving the door cracked slightly open so they don't bust it down.

xxxxx

"There _is_ meat," Beca announces as she unwraps her breakfast sandwich, "No ketchup? She does this on purpose."

Yours remains untouched on the seat beside you. You fiddle with the claw of the towel lobster that you decided to bring to the car with you. As Beca tries to show you her sandwich, clearly overjoyed that Aubrey decided not to make her suffer a bacon-less meal, you turn and look out the window instead. The parking lot is empty. No one to help you even if you were able to flag someone down through tinted windows. "How long does this usually take?"

Beca puffs out her cheeks and looks at the hotel room door. She shrugs as she blows the air back out.

You lean your forehead against the window and fog up the glass, watching the hotel disappear. Dread eats away at your lungs as it slowly reappears. There are five thousand questions rolling around in your brain, but your head hurts too much to ask them. Instead, you close your eyes, because this all has to be a bad dream that will go away when you reopen them. Nope. You're still in a car, and Beca is still there.

 _Philadelphia._

What would they even do with you there? Kill you.

You pull your feet up onto the seat and rest your elbows against your knees – head in your hands. They're going to _kill_ you. Like, you're going to be _dead._ **Dead** _dead_. Maybe it won't be so bad. Maybe you'll see your mom again.

Beca is watching you. You can feel her eyes on you before you even glance up to see her looking at you through the rear view mirror.

"What?"

For a second, you don't think she's going to answer. She's just going to keep staring at you, making you wish you could dissolve down into the seat. At least you're visible though. They could have put you in the trunk.

"What were you doing in the alley?" she finally asks.

Right, because that's how you ended up in this situation. "I was taking out the trash." That doesn't get any response. "I _work_ there. I mean, not in the alley. Next door. I was taking out the trash."

"Right…" Beca turns her focus back to her sandwich.

"How long have you been doing this?" you ask.

"What?" Beca asks, suddenly amused, "Kidnapping girls? You're the first." She winks at the mirror.

She knows what you mean. You know she does. So you just stare at her in mild disgust, waiting for her to provide you with a real answer.

" _Oh_!" she dramatizes, "You mean _killing people._ " She leans her head back against the seat and looks up at the ceiling like she has to think for a moment. "I don't know. I started accompanying my dad when I was eight. Killed my first guy at nine?"

It sounds so crazy, you don't know whether or not to believe her.

"Your new best friend _Aubrey_ , in there," she continues motioning toward the motel door, "was _five_. Her first time out, her dad drew an 'x' on the guy's neck and handed her a knife. That man doesn't mess around. Can you imagine your first day of kindergarten…" She exhales a short laugh. "Pre-K was just Pre-Killing."

Judging by the expression on Beca's face, she expects you to be amused as well. You lower yourself onto your back and look up at the ceiling, just trying to take it all in. You lost your first tooth at five. Eight is when you got a kitten for Christmas. At nine, your grandparents took you to Disneyworld. You could barely use a butter knife at any of those ages – except maybe those plastic ones used to spread cream cheese on bagels from Starbucks.

You couldn't even stick a knife in someone now.

You wouldn't _want_ to.


	8. Chapter 8

X

* * *

 **How To Get Away With Mercy**

* * *

 _You're cinematic razor sharp,_  
 _A welcome arrow through the heart._  
 _There is a darkness deep in you;_  
 _A frightening magic I cling to._  
 _\- Snow Patrol_

* * *

 **Aubrey**

* * *

Your work feels doubled – and it's taxing. This is usually the part you like – scrubbing the floors, the walls, removing all traces of your existence. The hotel room isn't even a wreck; you've definitely cleaned worse. But all you can think about is how you have a hostage trapped in your car. Because, that's what she is, isn't she? No, hostages get released for ransom. You can't plan on releasing this girl. You're a kidnapper, and you're about to be a cold-blooded murderer. You have to focus. One trace of DNA in this room, and it's all over.

It only takes one mistake to end up dead.

And aside from this life that you live, that's the only other option.

It's a kill or be killed world.

Fortunately, you weren't raised to be the victim.

The girl in your car, on the other hand – _weak_.

There is a difference between people who were born to kill and those who were born to be killed. Killers can be killed. But the prey of the world – there's no changing that; that's just who you are. You were born to kill, therefore, _you_ have a choice to live or die in this world. Maybe. You pretend you do, at least.

Your father has told you from the moment you were born, 'Don't have compassion, Aubrey. That very first moment you let yourself feel it, it's over. You can't come back from that.' _I understand, Sir,_ you always reply. Then he calls you a fucking disappointment and walks away.

If he knew about Tulsa. If he knew about _Beca_ …

You stuff everything into a trash bag to burn, feeling sick.

 _What._

 _A._

 _Fucking._

 _Disappointment._

It's fine. Being told you're a fucking disappointment hurts less than a bullet to the brain would. Sometimes, you think _he's_ prone to weakness, and that's why he didn't shoot you in the genitals the moment you were born a girl. But then you remember the time you overslept when you were ten, and he lit your pajamas on fire. He put you out a few seconds later, when your screaming woke up Beca and served as a warning to her never to oversleep again either. The scars on your back still burn sometimes after you wake up from dreaming about it, and those moments are when you know for sure he spared you because he's getting older and he just wants a blood-related heir. Not because he cares.

Beca's dad wasn't so picky. He does still seem a little chagrined he stole the wrong child – but, in his defense, Beca and her twin brother did look an awful lot alike at the time. They still do. So, maybe you keeps tabs on people. Sue you.

That day though, the day you overslept because you were talking to Beca all night, made you realize that you might actually be, _secretly_ , a fucking disappointment. Later that night, when Beca came to take a bath with you – because you were kids and liked to pretend to drown each other 'in preparation' to be professional assassins (it still pisses Beca off that you can hold your breath longer than she can), she found you sitting on the side of the tub. You were on the verge of crying, because it hurt too much to lower yourself into the water. Instead of telling your father, so he could 'give you something to cry about', she sat down beside you, her socks still on as she put her feet in the tub. And she kissed your cheek. She told you she saw someone do that in the grocery store a few days prior, and that it was called 'love', and she didn't the think you guys were _supposed_ to feel that, but she did, for you.

"Do you want to see what _I_ saw somebody do?" you whispered to her, and then you pecked her lips. You both pulled back giggling, and from then on, you were both secretly fucking disappointments together.

The memory makes everything a little bit easier in the moment. While Beca may be…a little immature, and kind of stupid sometimes, she's waiting for you in the car. You're in this together. You're in _everything_ together. You enjoyed that fact a lot more than when you fucked up in Tulsa than you do now, putting up with Beca's mistakes. But you owe her not to complain _too_ much. Beca rarely says anything to you about Tulsa. She stands up for you when everyone else has speculations and shit to say. And she says the nightmares are all the more reason to fuck you exhausted.

You tie the bag, then carry it outside to stuff it into the trunk. Fresh air is so much better when your nostrils burn from bleach. It's one of your favorite feelings – aside from Beca fucking you exhausted. But if Beca asks your favorite feeling, it's fresh air after bleach – oh, and yanking your knife out of some asshole's neck.

"Why do you look so much less angry at me?" Beca whispers in concern when you get into the car.

"You can't help your intellectual disadvantages, so I've decided to forgive you." You close the door, then buckle your seatbelt.

Beca turns in her seat to look at Chloe. "She _loves_ me." She places her hand on your thigh. "Is that a knife in your pants, or are you happy to see me?"

"It's a knife. Move before you hurt yourself."

Beca moves her hand and makes heart hands at Chloe.

You turn around to look at her as well. She hasn't touched her sandwich, but, honestly, you wouldn't either – not in her position.

"Wanna put her in the trunk and have sex in the back seat later?" Beca asks.

 _Yes._ "No. Do you need anything, Chloe?"

"You don't care if she watches?" Beca asks, "Dude, you don't want to her to join, do you?"

You cover Beca's mouth with your hand, digging your nails into her cheeks _just hard enough_ when she licks your palm. You try to cover your disgust with a smile. "Beca. Hush."

Chloe just shakes her head.

"Do you have any music you'd like to listen to?" It's a hollow offer. You're probably just making it all worse in trying to ease some of her fear. She doesn't deserve to die in terror. Everyone dies in terror though. One day, you will too.

Chloe turns away from you. She must have accepted you're not able to help her in the way she thought you could.

"I'm sorry." You face the wheel, and start the car.

Beca reaches for the radio, and you slap her fingers away from it.

"I don't have the patience to spend hours listening to you switch channels every two seconds."

"I'm not!" Beca claims.

"Beca…"

"I'm not, I swear."

You slowly, _tightly_ grip the wheel. "I will stab you if you touch that button more than three times this entire drive."

"Only _three_? Can we at least make it, like, three per hour? What if it's commercials?!"

" _Three_ times, the entire drive, or you're going to be pulling one of my knives out of part of your body."

"Which part?" Beca whispers.

You change your mind. You don't forgive her anymore. "Beca, shut up."

Beca smirks and settles back against her seat, obviously pleased with herself.

"Are you going to turn on the radio?" you ask.

"No, because you're going to count that as one out of three."

Maybe Beca isn't always stupid. You smirk and turn on the world news, Beca's _favorite_ channel. It's odd how little has changed with the person you've kidnapped in the car.

"Aubrey. Seriously?"

"Hm?" You feign clueless as you finally pull out of the parking lot.

"The news?"

"What's wrong with the news?" you ask, "You could use some cultural enlightenment."

"I just killed a _British_ guy a few weeks ago."

You breathe a laugh through your nose.

"How is this _funny_ to you?" Chloe finally speaks up.

"I was laughing, because he was Australian," you say, even though that's not going to make things better.

"Wait, seriously?" Beca asks.

You nod.

Chloe curls up on her side and tries to burrow directly into the seat itself – like she's small enough to just fit in through the cracks.

There is a twinge of guilt in your stomach. You try to ignore it by turning on some music. There is _nothing_ you can say to fix this right now. Especially because you don't even know what you're going to do. _Kill her_. That's what you're going to do. You _have_ to. "I'm fine," you mouth when you realize Beca is giving you a peculiar stare. This is just so much stress on top of how stressed out you have already been recently _on top of_ the stress of your every day lives.

Beca reaches over and squeezes your leg, then rests her hand there to calm you down. It helps. It also makes you want to lean over and lay your head on her shoulder, but you're driving. "I cannot wait for a real Philadelphia cheese steak," she says.

"Do you think about anything other than sex and food?" you ask.

"No, I'm fulfilling my father's dream by being a teenage boy," Beca answers.

"You're twenty," you point out.

"Yeah, but you said I was a late bloomer, so I'm living up to both of your expectations really, _really_ well."

"Mhm."

Beca's fingers creep along your thigh, working their way higher.

You jump a little and grab her hand, shoving it back to where it belongs while someone else is in the car. But no matter how hard you try to hide it, she still gets the satisfaction of seeing your cheeks flush and your lips fighting to curve into a smile. "Stop."

"Stop what?"

"You know what." _Stop trying to finger me while there is another person in the car._

"I have no idea what you're talking about. You're going to have to spell it out for me."

You're about to admonish her again when her phone goes off. "Who is that?"

"Jesse," Beca answers as she looks at the screen, "I asked him for some information." She releases your hand to text him back.

"Oh." You flex your fingers, then place your hand back on the wheel. "Tell him I said hi." _And that he better watch himself, or else._

Jesse is a good guy. He really is. It's obvious though that he really enjoys spending time with Beca. And awhile ago, when you and Beca were having a disagreement, she kissed him. She told you afterwards, and assured you it meant nothing. But you can't help but wonder now what his neck would look like with blood streaming down it. Especially now that Beca's father keeps dropping hints that Jesse is a good guy, he really is.

"Yeah, will do," Beca answers obliviously.

You look in the rear view mirror at Chloe, and try to determine if she's fallen asleep or not. She's exhausted. No wonder, sleeping on the floor, handcuffed to the leg of the bed. She needs to get some sleep – even though she'll be getting _plenty_ of it later. She won't ever wake up.

Beca tucks her phone back into her pocket. "He says hi."

"What did you ask him?"

Beca nods toward the back seat. "I thought it might come in handy."

Beca is right. You need to know who might come looking for her. The anxiety comes back as a rock in your stomach again. Nobody looks for the people you usually take out. They're outcasts. If someone does come looking for them, it's usually someone else who deserves the same kind of fate. You crack the windows for some air.

"You good?" Beca asks.

You nod and plaster on a smile.

"Aubrey, I'm really sorry. I know you already have a lot on your mind, and-"

"No, it's fine," you cut her off there. It's fine. "We'll take care of it," you mouth silently, in case Chloe is still awake. If people do come looking for her though… If this turns into some massive Missing Persons case. Your father will kill you. It doesn't matter if he wants someone to take over for him one day. If you fuck up, he will _kill_ you. And it won't be painless. And it won't be quick. You breathe in the cool breeze.

"It's not too late to turn around and call Stacie…" Beca mouths back.

"No." You realize there is a part of you holding onto hope that you can let her live. That you don't become like everyone else you know - the kind of person who can kill just anyone. "When the time comes, if we can't think of anything else, I'll do it. I promise."


	9. Chapter 9

x

* * *

 **How To Get Away With Mercy**

* * *

 _You're cinematic razor sharp,_  
 _A welcome arrow through the heart._  
 _There is a darkness deep in you;_  
 _A frightening magic I cling to._  
 _\- Snow Patrol_

* * *

 **Beca**

* * *

You fucking fucked the fuck up. You can tell just by the stoic look on Aubrey's face. She should be chewing you out and telling you what a fucking moron you are. Instead, she's quiet, expression unreadable – focused on the road, while no doubt lost inside her own head. It's no secret, to you, that Aubrey thinks too fucking much. Especially when she's upset. Fuck.

You change the radio station (only two times left to touch it now) to a channel that mainly plays the 80s, something you'd complain about on a normal day, and a brief ghost of a smile appears on her face. "Aubrey." You have to say something, but what? You give her an apologetic expression, and she mouths at you that it's fine. The thing about Aubrey is that when she says something is fine, that means she's probably thinking about how long she can prolong bleeding you out after she stabs you.

"I like this song," she comments, and you know if it was just the two of you, she'd be singing along. She loves to sing, and she's good at it (like she is at everything). Maybe in another life, she might have been the next Dolly Parton.

"I like _you_ ," you try to butter her up.

Aubrey rolls her eyes. "You just want my forgiveness."

 _That too_.

Aubrey sighs. "I'm not…angry," she whispers, "There are just a lot of things that can go very wrong right now." So, what she's saying is…she's worried. She keeps looking at Chloe through the rear view mirror, and, if you didn't know any better, you might even dare say she's afraid. Suggesting Aubrey might be scared though would be the equivalent of asking her to please slap you across the face. And these aren't the kind of circumstances where you would enjoy Aubrey getting rough with you… Not that Aubrey has ever gotten rough with you outside of those certain circumstances, but you've seen the things she's capable of.

You can try to assuage some of her fears with the information Jesse provided you with once you're at Amy's and someone else is available to either kill or keep tabs on Chloe. For now, you slide your hand beneath her ponytail and rub the back of her neck. It takes her a moment, and some shifting around in her seat, but she settles down and softens up eventually. "Dude, this is going to be a long-ass drive," you point out.

"Yeah." Aubrey rolls her shoulders and takes a deep breath to refocus on the road.

"And I'm hungry."

Aubrey frowns and gives you a side glance. "You just ate."

"Really? That was hours ago. You took like a year to clean that room."

Aubrey glances at the clock. "Oh."

"How would you survive without me here reminding you to eat?" you ask.

"I'd put it in my planner." Aubrey gives you a smile. "Don't kid yourself. You're useless to me, Beca."

You laugh. "Wow. I'm going to remember that."

"You say that every time," Aubrey points out, "And here we are again. I don't think it's _my_ memory that's the problem."

Aubrey is so fucking rude.

"So, lunch?" you ask.

"Fine. But only because I don't want to stop later." Her hair is falling loose from the tie, and when you stop rubbing her neck to tuck it behind her ear, she leans into your hand like a cat. She might be really fucking rude, but she's also pretty fucking adorable too.

xxxxx

"So, what are we going to do about her?" you ask.

Aubrey takes an exit next to a sign claiming there are restaurants nearby. "What do you mean?"

"We can't go through a drive-thru. What if she freaks out, and they call the police?"

"Thank god, I hate fast food," Aubrey says, "We'll just park near something, and you can run inside and get us food."

"Why me?"

"Would you like to sit in the car with Chloe?" Aubrey inquires.

You think about it. "Demoted from hitman to delivery man with no fair warning," you concede.

"I'll let you pick where we eat," Aubrey tries to soften the blow.

It doesn't work. "No, I know how this works," you reply, "I'm just going to be saying a bunch of restaurants until I name one you agree with."

"I won't do that," Aubrey assures you, "Try me."

"Kentucky Fried Chicken," you purposely name one that you know Aubrey won't like.

Her face says it all.

"What?" you ask.

"That's basically fast food, Beca," Aubrey tells you, "They have a drive-thru."

"You just said I could eat anywhere I want," you remind her.

"But we agreed no fast food."

"No," you disagree, "I just said we can't go through the drive-thru, and _you_ took it as no fast food. They have a lobby."

"Pick somewhere else, please."

"Burger King."

"Beca…" Aubrey breathes a frustrated sigh.

You probably shouldn't be fucking with her when she's already upset. "McDonalds."

"Oh, look, there's an Olive Garden up ahead," Aubrey points out, "Let's stop there."

"I thought you said _I_ could pick," you remind her.

"Yeah, but you're naming places I don't like, and you're naming them because you _know_ I don't like them."

…she's not wrong.

"So name somewhere we can both enjoy, or I'm going to Olive Garden, and you can either eat there or starve."

"What about that Olive Garden over there?" you suggest, "I'm so glad you let me choose for once."

If there is a queen of breathing dramatic sighs, the title belongs to Aubrey. She could be in the Guinness Book of World Records for most dramatic sigh – and also most sighs in a short period of time. She tightens her hands on the wheel and sticks out her lower lip as she exhales a loud, drawn out breath directed at you.

"I mean, I love both Olives and Gardens," you say as she pulls into the parking lot, "Dude, _together,_ they're a perfect match – just like us."

"Get out and get us food."

"Are you going to tell me what you want…?" You at least know better than to bring her food she doesn't like.

"I'll just do Minestrone soup," Aubrey answers, "Oh, and sweet tea."

"That's it?" you confirm, "Nothing else?"

Aubrey nods.

"Okay. Are you okay…?" That's not a lot of food, and you're not even sure if she ate breakfast.

"I appreciate your concern; I'm just not very hungry." Aubrey turns around to kneel over the center console and gently shakes Chloe. "Do you have anything specific you'd like to eat, Chloe?"

Right. You have to feed _her_ too. You forgot. You're a little caught up on Aubrey not wanting to eat, which is a definite sign she's far more worried than she's letting on. _Fuck_. She just _finally_ started eating again after the last stressful event that upturned your lives too. You have to fix this. "Why don't I stay in the car with Chloe, and you go get the food?"

"I'd rather stay in the car."

Chloe must be awake. She presses herself into the back seat, and tries to move her shoulder out of Aubrey's reach. "I don't want to stay with Beca," is all she mumbles.

"Just get her what I'm having," Aubrey says.

"Got it," you state.

"Thank you," Aubrey says, and it sounds like it's for a lot more than just running inside to get food.

"Yeah, no, you're welcome." Your easy compliancy might be because you're having a hard time wrapping your head around this entire situation, but as long as she appreciates it, you have no problem considering yourself to be a patient person. "I'm going to go get us food. If you want to kill her while I'm gone…"

" _Beca_."

"Right, I'm out." You lean forward and peck her lips, before you open the car door. "Before you kill _me._ "

Aubrey nods. "Good idea."

"Like, literally _all_ of my ideas are good ideas, Aubrey."

Aubrey looks at Chloe and then back at you again.

Okay, maybe not that one. "I'll make it up to you?"

"You can't even bring me food in a timely manner."

"I'm just…" You motion toward Olive Garden to signal you're going to go do what she wants.

"Please."

"You sure you don't want to go?"

"Get out of the car." Aubrey literally shoves you out, then pulls the door shut and locks it.

You tap on the window, then press your lips close to the opening when Aubrey rolls it down just enough to hear you tell her, "I need money." You're not actually sure she's going to give you any with the way she squints her eyes at you. You might have to call Stacie to work the nearest street corner for some cash. But, finally, she rolls the window down another few centimeters and stuffs some bills through the opening.

"I mean, I can rob them," you offer, shoving the money into your pocket, "The Hamburglar is closer to my previous career path than Uber Eats."

Aubrey rolls the window back up.

Yeah, you should probably just go order the food. You make a show of pulling the hood of your sweatshirt up over your head like you're about to go hold the cook at gunpoint and demand he open up the secret breadstick safe, and walk toward the restaurant. If only your windows weren't tinted, because you'd love to see the irritated expression on Aubrey's face.

You can hear Aubrey's voice inside your brain at this point. It's like she destroyed your conscious and replaced it with herself to further her own agenda. _Can you, please, just act normal, Beca? You're going to get us caught._ You've never felt normal a day in your life. You walk into the Olive Garden, and stand behind a family of four, with a concealed gun and the knowledge you just shot a man and you're holding a woman against her will in your car. You're not going to go screaming about it from the rooftops, but if you can't feel a _little_ suspicious for the thrill of it, then what's the point?

You're not scared about getting caught like Aubrey is.

But, then again, what's the worst that's going to happen to you? You know your dad. He'd let you sit in prison for a few months like an extended 'time out' so you could think about what you did, then have someone framed and spend the rest of his life micromanaging yours. He's a man of thought.

Aubrey's dad is a man who spent years in the armed forces torturing the country's enemies. He taught Aubrey how to remove fingernails with pliers by forcing her to remove a few of his own.

You'd commit suicide before pissing him off.

He raised Aubrey to be good at what she does though; you'll give him that.

Aubrey – the epitome of perfection, future boss man in training.

She'll do a good job running the business one day. She's committed, organized, _intelligent_ – and she radiates confidence, even when you know she doesn't feel it. She does what needs to be done, and people listen to her. Except for right now. Because you both know what needs to be done with Chloe, and neither of you actually want to do it. But it's inevitable – and, eventually, she'll come to terms with it and do it. Hopefully. Aubrey also operates with a strict moral code that she tries to hide.

You're not as interested in 'what needs to be done' or in moral codes. You have morals. More than some, anyway. You did make the mistake of sparing Chloe, after all. But, also, it was a _mistake._ Fuck that boring shit. You get to the counter and order food to go. You want to make a name for yourself, to be a ghost like Stacie and be known for your work. You want to be on Unsolved Mysteries. You want to be the subject of podcasts and movies, to have your own Netflix series where everyone hates the end, because no one knows who you are. Deadpool meets Jack the Ripper. If you can't be 'normal', you at least want to be known.

But Aubrey considers that reckless.

So, you settle for just the excitement of feeling suspicious – reveling in the knowledge that you're surrounded by people who have no idea what you are and never will.


	10. Chapter 10

x

* * *

 **How To Get Away With Mercy**

* * *

 _You're cinematic razor sharp,_  
 _A welcome arrow through the heart._  
 _There is a darkness deep in you;_  
 _A frightening magic I cling to._  
 _\- Snow Patrol_

* * *

 **Chloe**

* * *

It's becoming clearer that Aubrey doesn't plan to let you go and may not be as interested in letting you live as you previously hoped. It seems like she's just prolonging it for whatever reason now. Maybe she's some type of sociopath who can see how much you're suffering and likes it. You don't want her to touch you anymore, but you just feel so fucking alone and more scared than you've ever been in your entire life. You just want to go back to your life. There are so many things you were looking forward to – med school, moving out of state, getting an apartment and finally being able to have a pet.

"I'm turning off the child locks," Aubrey says, breaking roughly fifteen minutes of awkward silence, "Don't try to run."

You nod.

Aubrey unlocks the car and gets out.

You glance up to see what she's doing.

Aubrey shuts the driver's door, then opens the back door. "Sit up."

You slowly push yourself upright, accidentally knocking the cold breakfast sandwich and towel lobster on the floor.

Aubrey sits down beside you and closes the door, then reaches between the door and the seat to relock the car. "How are you feeling – physically?"

You scoot away until your back hits the other door – staying far away from her.

"I'm sorry," Aubrey apologizes, "I know that doesn't mean a whole lot to you in this situation, but I really am trying my best to figure this out."

"Then just let me go," you tell her, unable to decide whether or not you believe her. She seems so…normal. She's not at all what you picture a serial killer to look like, or to be like. If you were to walk by Aubrey on the street, you would think she was just like anybody else. Your first impression would be that she's confident, beautiful, probably off to intellectually destroy a man in his own office. And that makes her so much more terrifying.

Aubrey looks at her hands and sighs. "Here's the thing," she says, "I have a boss, just like anybody else. And if I were to let you go, and word got out about this, we would all be dead within twelve hours – and that's if we're lucky."

"I _promise_ you, I swear on my _life_ , I will not say anything." You won't. You _really, truly, honestly_ won't.

Aubrey gives you an apologetic smile. "I just can't take your word for that."

"So what are you going to do with me?" you ask.

"I don't know," Aubrey answers, "I don't want to kill you. You seem like a good person – like the kind of person who volunteers at animal shelters and...recycles." She has you pegged. She's also starting to strike you as a little socially awkward. You _do_ recycle, but?

"Is it true you were five when you first killed someone?" you ask her. No wonder she's awkward; she was raised to be a fucking assassin. This is all she knows.

Aubrey looks rather taken aback by the question. "Yes," she answers.

"I feel bad for you." You don't want to talk to her anymore. If she's not going to kill you, what else even is there? Lock you in a room somewhere? Chain you up like a dog? Being checked in on every now and again to make sure you have food and water may be living, but it isn't a _life._ You angle yourself away from her and rest your head against the window, trying to ignore the pain.

Aubrey is quiet for a moment, looking at her hands on her lap. "I have made the best of what I was given," she finally says, proudly, "I think that's more than many people can say."

"Don't you want a _life_?" So much for not talking. One day, you'll master the whole keeping quiet thing. After these people kill you. "Don't you want to settle in one place with a house, and a normal job, and a wife, and kids, and pets?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Aubrey smooths out some invisible wrinkles in her jeans, a tight, closed-lipped smile pulling at her face. "I think that a conventional life would be incredibly boring."

"So, you bypass that by _killing_ people."

"Terrible people."

"That's what the _law_ is for!"

Aubrey looks up. "Who do you think hires us? Do you think the law wants to deal with every single scumbag to walk the earth? There are some people out there who simply deserve to be disposed of."

"Everyone deserves a fair trial. You're just as bad as the people you're killing."

"What about the man who attacked you?" Aubrey asks, "Did he?"

That leaves you quiet for a few seconds. "He would have been convicted."

"After he raped you," Aubrey says, "After he _killed_ you. And, even then, you're not the first person he assaulted, and you probably would not have been the last."

You start to feel like you're going to be sick again.

"You can group me in with him, if you want," Aubrey says, "But I would not get _pleasure_ out of murdering you. And, remember, Beca and Stacie saved your life."

"They could have left me there after they killed him," you point out, "I would have lived."

"Beca didn't know," Aubrey defends her, "You were bleeding. I imagine she was scared. She's never killed someone by accident or left somebody to die before. She may have…an attitude, but she means well. I think you two got off to a poor start."

"We all got off to a poor start! You kidnapped me!"

Aubrey almost laughs.

You turn farther away from her – watching her out of the corner of your eye, just so you'll know if she's about to stab you.

"I apologize. It's not funny. We're all on edge here. I've never been a kidnapper before."

Now you're not sure if she's awkward, trying too hard to be friendly, or this is her sense of humor – or, quite possibly, all three.

"Um, you should try to eat when Beca comes back," Aubrey changes the subject, "You don't want to be hungry on top of everything else."

Speak of the devil, the passengers side door opens, and Beca looks at them, confused. "Are we having a backseat picnic?"

Aubrey shakes her head. "No." She lets herself out and moves back to the front.

You watch as your food is placed on top the center console for you. You're a miserable combination of starving and sick to your stomach right now, and you can't tell whether it looks appealing or not.

"Uh, here," Beca says, and hands Aubrey's right to her.

"Thank you," Aubrey says.

"Should we pray?" Beca asks.

Aubrey tilts her head. "Why would we pray?"

"Dude, I don't know," Beca says, getting in the car and closing the door, "What if she's religious?"

"Well, you could ask her, Beca, she's sitting right there."

You're starting to think that the only people they may _actively_ interact with are each other. "I don't believe in God," you say.

"Bone apple teeth," Beca replies.

"Please, stop saying it like that," Aubrey pleads, "You know it's Bon Appétit. Say it correctly."

"Bendydick Cucumberpath," Beca says.

"Beca…"

"Less Miserables."

Aubrey signs and turns her attention to her food.

"Can't elope," Beca continues to irk her, opening her own food, "Open scissor me. All tomato-m. Chi-hoo-ah-hoo-ah. Pro- _noun_ -ciation."

Aubrey pulls a knife out of nowhere, twirls it around her fingers, and has it against Beca's neck in three seconds flat – not even looking up from her soup.

"I will only ever pronounce words correctly for the rest of my life," Beca says unflinchingly, not looking up either.

"That's what I thought." The knife gets put away.

You watch them interact, trying to understand them – both together and as individuals. "So, you're her boss?" you ask Aubrey.

Aubrey smiles, _actually_ smiles.

" _No,_ " Beca answers before Aubrey can reply, "She's just _bossy_."

"Somebody has to tell you what to do," Aubrey says, clearly amused and delighted by your assumption.

"Pretty sure I'm capable of making decisions on my own."

"How has that worked out for you recently?" Aubrey asks.

You're pretty sure that by 'recently', she means you.

"You're a fucking dick." Beca holds up a fork with a ravioli on the end. "Do you want to try some?"

"No." Aubrey shrinks into herself and shakes her head.

Beca frowns.

"Eat," Aubrey changes the focus back to you.

You hesitate, then slowly take the bowl and cup, and set it on the seat next to you.

" _You_ eat," Beca tells her.

"I _am_ eating." Aubrey swallows a spoonful of her soup. "Mm."

You move to sit crisscross on the seat, and take your spoon out of the plastic wrapper. The food smells good. You just wish you were somewhere you could appreciate it. The three of you fall into silence, and you poke at your food, realizing that Aubrey is more or less just stirring hers around too. _Why_? In this situation, you shouldn't want to know more about them. You should be letting your terror consume all of you without any room to think about anything else. But it's strange that they strike you as…human. You finally force yourself to take a few bites of food. You'll need strength if a chance to escape comes up.

"Seriously, Aubrey, _eat_ ," Beca says when she's nearly finished with her own food.

"I have a lot on my mind right now, okay?" Aubrey gets short with her, "And we should be driving right now if we want to get there in a decent amount of time." She passes her soup to Beca. "Here, you eat it."

"I don't want it," Beca replies.

"Well, then, put the lid on it and put it in a trash bag."

You balance your cup and bowl as Aubrey starts the car, then pulls back out of the parking lot. "Why are we going up north?"

"We have another hit," Aubrey answers.

"So, you're going to kill somebody else," you confirm.

"That's the job," Beca says, struggling to tear a trash bag off a roll she dug out of the glove compartment. She looks at Aubrey. "This one's yours. You can let out some of that pent up frustration."

Aubrey frowns harder.

"You keep holding your knife to my neck like you want to stab somebody."

"Beca, I keep holding my knife to your neck, because you're annoying."

Beca puts their trash in the bag. "I don't have an argument for that." She turns to look over the back seat at you. "Are you done?"

You look down at your food and shake your head. Eating it slowly seems to be working to keep the nausea from intensifying. It's actually making you feel a little better. You were probably starving and dehydrated on top of everything else.

Beca turns and flops back down on her seat, but you notice she's still watching you from the rear view mirror.

You shift a little self-consciously, and look down, avoiding eye contact. It's not your fault the two of you 'got off to a bad start'. She saved your life, and has to proceeded to clearly wish she hadn't and act like you're purposely being a burden on them. You didn't ask to be attacked in that alley. And, while you're somewhat grateful to be alive, you didn't ask them to save you either. The only thing you've asked of them is to be let go.


End file.
